Kurt is Gandhi
by Kimmy Jarl
Summary: "Do it. Hit me. It won't change who I am." This is an early season two, s02e03 Grilled Cheesus aftermath fix-it type fic about bullying, religion, and atheism. It's about friends (and enemies) actually talking about their differences. It's the sort of fic I wanted to read after watching Grilled Cheesus, and when I couldn't find it, I thought I'd try to write it myself.
1. Good news

**AN: This is a Kurt-centric, early season 2, Grilled Cheesus aftermath fix-it type fic about bullying, religion, and atheism. It's about friends (and enemies) actually talking about their differences and the way they see the world. It's the sort of fic I wanted to read after watching Grilled Cheesus, and when I couldn't find it, I thought I'd try to write it myself.**

 **Incidentally, I've long suspected that I have this strong, if totally undeveloped, talent for comedy. I suppose this fic is where I'm going to put that to the test. Not sure how successful that'll be, what with all the crumbling friendships and serious talks that's going on. But I hope I'll, at least on occasion, make you smile.**

 **I also hope that I'll be able to portray all the characters and their different views in a fair and unbiased way. I do have some strong opinions about the atheism/religion debate. (The strongest opinion being: This is totally interesting!)**

 **Comments and criticism would be very, very welcome.**

* * *

 **Chapter one**

Kurt came to school as the bearer of good news.

His dad was awake. After a week of misery, his dad in a coma, no one knowing if he would live or die, until late last night, when he had finally woken up. Kurt walked down the school corridor dizzy with relief.

Mercedes was waiting for him by his locker, looking worried.

"He woke up!" Kurt grinned.

"Praise the Lord." Her answering grin faltered. "Oh. I guess you don't want me to mention-"

Not this again.

"Mercedes, shut up."

He put his arms around her, and she squeezed him tight. His dad was awake, that was the only thing that mattered. And he needed the hug, maybe they both did. Last week still lay between them, back when she had offered him her prayers and he had rejected her.

Kurt knew about rejection. For the sake of rejection he'd been hiding from his father, keeping the words "Dad, I'm gay" chafing away inside his chest for so long he sometimes felt like they had taken him over, had hollowed him all out.

Turned out his dad was fine with it, and there'd been no reason to worry.

Then there was the whole mess with Finn, which in retrospect was a long stupid story of Kurt refusing to even _see_ rejection until Finn had felt forced to scream and shout to be heard. And really, every dumpster toss, every whispered _fag_ , every slushy to the face was rejection.

Kurt Hummel could like, write an essay on rejection.

Which is why when Mercedes had approached him last Friday looking so hopeful and asking him to come to her church, he had agreed after only a minimal amount of persuasion. How could he refuse? Predictably though, the whole church service thing had turned out to be just as uncomfortable as he'd feared. Mercedes' singing hadn't helped at all, her amazingness notwithstanding. It just reinforced the fact that it hadn't been enough, and would never be enough.

He should just have kept his mouth shut in the first place. He should never have told them he was an atheist.

"Is your dad still in the hospital?" She had released him, but they were still standing really close, still holding on to each other.

"Yeah. They're keeping him for another week at least. He can't really g-get out of the bed yet, but he'll be fine, he'll be good."

He had to be.

"Oh, baby, don't cry."

He wasn't crying, or he hadn't been until just now. Mercedes gathered him up again, and he found himself with his face pressed into her shoulder, pretty much unable to do anything else. Damn, he should have known this would happen. Sympathy from Mercedes had a tendency to make him cry, even at the most inopportune moments. People walking past were all but falling over themselves staring.

Move it along folks, nothing to see here. Just a fabulous black woman comforting her fabulous crying friend.

"I'm sorry," he said, easing away from her and wiping his cheeks with quick swipes of his hands. "It's just been so miserable and lonely and I couldn't sleep and we're out of coffee. And I don't even know if coffee is good for the h-heart."

"Hush, baby." Mercedes caught his hand, staring up at him. "First of all, you must take care of yourself. At least tell me you've been eating."

"Yes, yes. Carole brought a casserole. It was big enough to feed the entire football team."

"That's great." She smiled at him. "See? Your dad's girlfriend is a nurse. She'll help you take care of him. Besides, remember I've met your dad. He'll be back on his feet in no time. I guarantee it."

Kurt smiled. "Thank you. You're the best."

"Of course I am." She said it with pretend annoyance, an inside joke.

They laughed, a nice laughter of shared history. Yes, they could absolutely put this last week behind them.

"Listen," Mercedes said. There was a long pause, but she seemed determined to get it out. "I'm sorry things got so weird between us."

"I'm sorry too." Quick and small.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

If she didn't stop he would start bawling again.

"I brought you something."

"Presents? Oh goodie!"

He grinned and clapped his hands in a way that he knew full well would remind everyone who saw him that he was gay, gay, gay and not ashamed of it, thank you very much.

"Here."

Mercedes put something in his hands that was much heavier than he had expected it to be. It was... a book? He turned it over and read the small golden lettering on the otherwise unadorned black cover.

The Holy Bible.

He nearly dropped it.

"I know this might make things weird again," Mercedes said hurriedly. "But we won't let it, right?" Her hands fluttered in quick _please calm down_ gestures.

"It's a _bible_." It came out in a scandalized whisper. "You gave me a _bible_."

Kurt turned the book over again, hiding the incriminating letters.

"I know you don't believe in God," Mercedes said. "But what about your dad? What does he believe?"

"I..." Kurt stopped, thrown by the question. "I have no idea."

"My dad had eye surgery a few years ago," Mercedes said. "Detached retinas, he had bandages over his eyes, it was really scary, we didn't even know if he would recover. He could have gone blind."

"Whoa." She rarely talked about her dad. But he knew that he worked a lot, and that she loved him.

"Everything that's been happening has reminded me of that. I used to read to him, back when he couldn't see. He wanted me to read the book of Job." Mercedes smiled. "I was too young to understand much of it, but the book of Job is all about being strong and overcoming suffering. It has some of the oldest poetry in the world. You don't have to believe in God to read it."

"Oh." Kurt made himself relax. It was fine. She was just being nice. She wasn't trying to send him some kind of message. This was a totally normal interaction between friends.

"Hey," Mercedes smiled with a shrug. "It's a free book. I just wanted you to have it."

See? Fine.

She glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. Classes were about to start. "See you later?" she said, already backing away with a smile.

"Mhm," Kurt nodded, and she left him standing by his open locker. Holding the Bible.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

Kurt showed the Bible - _the Bible!_ \- inside the locker, buried it in the middle of a pile of textbooks. His heart was beating kind of hard. He wasn't even sure what he was freaking out about. Mercedes was right, it was just a book. Just a freaking book.

He slammed the locker shut.

Nothing to see here, just a boy hiding a bible.

* * *

The first class had gone wretchedly. But whatever, he had other things on his mind right now, and oh yeah, he was a little bit behind on his school work, due to his _dad_ being in a _coma_ , for God's sake.

And that was "for God's sake" as a figure of speech, not as him giving any credence to the great, invisible spirit in the sky.

So there, Mercedes.

Except don't tell her that out loud.

He had a break after first block. He'd intended to use that time in the library to catch up with his homework, but with his brain otherwise occupied, old habit had taken him to a bench by the south wall of the school building. A flat grass lawn with a red brick wall at his back, dozens of people passing all the time, the bench was the perfect combination of public and private. It felt safe.

Kurt sat with one leg over the other, his hands folded on top of his knee, his back straight. Two years ago, during his freshman year, this bench had been his usual place when he didn't have classes. Always alone of course, freshman year had been his year of solitude. Which just goes to show what a difference joining one of those social clubs could make.

Glee club had been a godsend, his saving grace. Thank God he joined glee. Language was filled with those little figures of speech.

He should just sit Mercedes down and ask for a redo. He should just say, "Things were a lot easier back when you assumed I believed in God and I never contradicted you. Let's go back to that."

Right.

He hadn't lied to her, but he'd held back out of politeness, is what he'd done. And things had gotten so out of whack last week that he knew he shouldn't bring it up again. He shouldn't ever talk to Mercedes about God, that was all there was to it. Not again and not anymore. Lesson learned. Thank you and goodnight.

"Kurt!"

It was Quinn and Brittany, walking across the grass towards him. Both of them regal and beautiful, wearing their cheerleading uniforms with their blond hair tied in high ponytails. They sat down on either side of him, leaning in, enveloping him in their soft, girly presence.

Take that, two years ago.

"How is he?" Quinn asked. "How's your dad?"

Aha! Kurt grinned, the bearer of good news all over again.

"He woke up!"

"Thank God."

"Thank the doctors."

Crap.

All warmth fell away from Quinn's face. She glanced to the side, pressing her lips together. And hey, she wore a small gold cross around her neck, the black patch on the cheerleading uniform really made it stand out. And yes, he'd noticed the cross many times before, he'd just never appreciated what kind of far-reaching significance it might hold.

"Listen-"

"I'm happy about your dad. I've already heard everything you have to say about God. You don't have to say it again."

"I wasn't going to say anything!"

"Sure you weren't."

"Fine, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

He might have rolled his eyes at this point. Who could blame him?

She looked at him, subtle lines of hurt on her face. "You know how much God means to me. Why can't you just let it go?"

And without another word she got to her feet and walked away. Kurt stared at her retreating back with dwindling hope.

Last week really _had_ set some significant bridges on fire.

"With proper cardiac rehabilitation and everyday reduction of risk factors, a majority of heart attack patients can expect a full recovery."

As usual, Brittany spoke with almost no inflection, her voice a low monotone. She said it like a quote, which, Kurt realized, it was.

"So it said in the book report you gave me."

It had been very sweet and surprisingly well organized, for a book report written in crayon. Or for anything written by Brittany. Lately, Kurt had taken to asking her small, to the point questions, just to marvel at the answers he got. She was like a random word generator, press the button and blink in astonishment.

"Britt, you still like me, right?"

He didn't care if he sounded needy, since she was the only one who heard. Britt was... well, she was Britt. It was strange to realize that the last (and only) time she and Kurt had been alone together they had been on his couch, kissing. A memory that made him feel small and guilty and like he couldn't trust himself. She'd been great about that whole episode though, acting like it had never happened. He owed her for that.

"I like you," she said. "You're my number two favorite angry person, but when I see you I always remember to feel bad because you were on the football team and I didn't sleep with you."

Kurt gaped, all his thoughts about God and religion derailed by what she had just said. So. Much. Wrong. First and foremost:

"Britt, you don't have to sleep with a guy just because he's on the football team."

"Yes, I do."

Yes. I. Do. She really did say that. He had not misheard.

"No. You don't. You really, really, really don't."

He met her eyes, stared right into them to press his point home. Like that would be enough to change her mind. Instant telepathy by force of will.

"I know that," she said. "Sex should be something I want to do, not something I have to do. It's always my choice." Again like a quote.

Well, good then. He should just leave it at that. Except, except she had just contradicted herself, hadn't she? She had said she _had_ to... Oh my God, he was not qualified for this conversation. He would never be qualified for this conversation. This conversation had gone beyond the pale into the horrifying.

"Listen, um." Kurt took a deep breath and let it out slow. One, two, three, he could do this. "Have you had sex with a lot of guys?"

"I have."

"Do you like it?"

"Sometimes."

"And sometimes you... don't?"

Sometimes. You. Don't. Yes, the implications were heartbreaking. It made the sudden addition of a bible to his locker seem like such a non-issue in comparison.

"Once I fell and bruised my tailbone even though I'm the best dancer. When life gives you lemons, you squeeze the marrow out of them."

"Wh- what?"

"I'm the best dancer."

"You are. You're the best dancer I've ever met. Mike is good, but he doesn't have your fluidity. When you dance I can't take my eyes off you. Honestly. You're amazing." He was gushing, but he was also speaking the truth.

She smiled, slow and tight-lipped. He wondered if she had changed the subject on purpose. Maybe she wasn't as random as she sometimes appeared.

"And, and." Kurt closed his eyes, spoke all in a rush. "And if you're having sex or are about to have sex and it turns out that you don't like it, you should stop. Just stop. With the sex. And don't have sex with someone you don't like. Please."

"You give good advice."

"I try."

He was sweaty all over.

Brittany leaned back against the bench. They sat in silence, side by side, watching the other students walk by.

He had just said the word _sex_ more times than he'd previously said in his entire life.

Good thing heart problems didn't run in the family.

So not funny.

He laughed anyway, snorted behind his hand. And even though she couldn't have any idea what he was thinking about, Brittany smiled.

At least he'd stopped worrying about what had happened last week in glee. It probably wasn't a big deal anyway, even though it had seemed like it at the time. It was just religion. It wasn't important like school and life and dating was important. Quinn wore a cross, and Kurt didn't. Mercedes liked to sing in church, and Kurt didn't. It hadn't been a problem before and it shouldn't be a problem now.

And Kurt certainly didn't care. They could all believe whatever they wanted. It didn't matter what kind of God-inspired opinions they deferred to in the privacy of their own minds. It wasn't important what their precious God thought about gay people. Or women. Or science. Whatever it was, Kurt was fine with it. It was absolutely none of his business and he should just let it drop.

Right?


	2. Lunch

**Chapter two**

At lunch Kurt shared a table with Tina, Mike, Finn, and Rachel. After the initial good news, which they had already heard, Kurt was mostly ignored. He was sitting at the couples table after all. No matter, it gave him the opportunity to tune it all out and work on his apology for glee club.

He really hoped no one would bring it up, but if they did, he should have a brief reconciliatory speech prepared. Just something to calm things down and bring it back to normal. Something simple.

Something like...

 _I'm sorry I made you leave the hospital when I found you praying over my dad. You were only trying to help, I appreciate that. No harm no foul. You were just praying. Even though I asked you not to. I was very clear about that. But it wasn't about me, was it? Nooo-_

Crap. Do-over.

 _I'm sorry I called you a bunch of mental patients._

No. Do-over.

 _I'm sorry I pushed you away when you were only being kind. Even though you pushed me away when-_

Dammit.

"Kurt?"

This wasn't going very well.

"Kurt?"

"What!"

Kurt lifted his eyes from his plate, glaring. Four faces stared back at him.

"You're acting kind of..." Finn's voice trailed off, easily cowed as usual. No wonder he and Rachel fit together so well.

"You look like you want to stab someone," Tina said.

Kurt noticed he was holding his utensils in a death grip. He also noticed that he was really, really angry. Stupidly angry, the kind of anger that made you do rash immature things, like shout mean things like a little kid to your dad at the dinner table and throw your plate with all the food down on the floor, just swipe it off the table and scream.

Kurt blinked, stared at the empty spot on the table in front to him, at his plate, his tray and all his things spilled across the floor.

Huh.

How's that for lack of impulse control?

There was a scatter of applause from the nearby tables, before everyone lost interest and got back to whatever they had been doing. Across the room, one of the long-suffering lunch ladies was moving in to clean up the mess. Dropped lunch trays was a near daily occurrence at McKinley High.

Mike and Tina had almost identical frozen looks on their faces, Finn was staring with his mouth half open, and Rachel's eyes were very wide. Kurt gave them his best oh-did-you-happen-to-see-that? I'm-so-embarrassed grin.

The whole thing was kind of funny, actually. Kurt gave a short laugh, but no one else joined in. They were still staring at him as if he had come unhinged.

"Oops," Kurt grinned.

"Dude," Finn said, shaking his head. "Puck once did that exact same thing."

"Flattered as I am by the comparison..."

"No, really. Exact. Same. Thing."

That relieved the tension, and suddenly they were all giggling and laughing uncontrollably.

Rachel was the first to recover.

"Kurt..." she said, once everyone around her had calmed down. "Don't take this the wrong way, but it's possible you have some unresolved issues to deal with."

That set them all giggling and laughing again.

"I'm serious," Rachel insisted. "Have you talked to somebody? Don't they have grief counselors at the hospital?"

That made everything less funny.

"I'm not in mourning."

"I know that." Rachel's voice was soft and concerned. She sounded much like she had in the hospital a few days ago, in his dad's room with a lit candle.

 _We just wanted to do something._

Kurt sighed.

Rachel had her small hands curled up under her chin as if to warm them, and when Kurt smiled at her across the table he saw her eyes well up with tears. He was reminded of the fact that despite all the signs to the contrary, Rachel just might be one of the most compassionate people he knew.

"I'll be fine," he said.

And he would be. His dad had woken up, that particular nightmare was over. And the _actual_ problem he had in school wasn't his friends. Kurt's actual problem had made himself thankfully scarce this last week, out of respect or fear or whatever else, but Kurt had no doubt that he would show his Neanderthal face sooner rather than later. Then things truly would be back to normal.

He looked up at the gray haired women who was mopping the floor next to their table. "Sorry," he whispered to her, his features set in embarrassed contrition. He could have helped her, but she was already cleaning up the last of his mess. She acknowledged his apology with a tired smile.

Bright side: At least that saved him from having to put the tray away. Leftover food was one of those things he found truly disgusting and this way he wouldn't have to get any of it close to his clothes or his hands.

* * *

Kurt and Tina were walking down the corridor on the way to history class when he saw Karofsky coming in the opposite direction, saw him speed up, already with his eyes fixed on Kurt. Great. Here he was, Kurt's personal problem, as if on cue. Kurt veered to the side to give the wide boy plenty of room to pass. Who was he kidding? Karofsky veered with him, a dull anticipation on his cave man face, and Kurt had only time to brace for the impact. He thought he was ready for it, but he wasn't. He gasped and then he was pushed with a force that was just ridiculous. His books and pencils went flying and his back slammed into the lockers and the floor turned sideways and he was down, the air knocked out of him.

Ow.

Seriously. Ow.

The thing was, the thing was... this shouldn't be shocking. There had always been bullies. It started way back, the name calling, the sitting alone, the no one picking him for anything group-related ever. Back then his teacher and other adults had taken him aside and explained it to him. They only pick on you because you're special, they'd say. Don't be so sensitive, they'd say. Pretend like it didn't happen, ignore it. Ignore it, and it would go away.

Then came McKinley, and things were different, a big school with lots of people who didn't know and didn't care. And he wasn't a little kid anymore. He could shift the blame around and guess what? It wasn't _Kurt_ , it wasn't _everybody_. The blame landed on a remarkably small group, the bullies, the jocks, the simpleton joiners. That made everything simple. True, the names they called him had grown up too, became dirty and low in new and personal ways, and middle school children never did throw each other into dumpsters, but still.

Back then he hadn't been able to ignore it, and it never went away. Here, though, he'd become... he'd become a revolution. He was free and talented and special, and he walked down the corridors with his this-is-me-ignoring-you face, and only the densest and most impervious of the bullies dared to touch him.

Except...

"Are you alright? Can you get up?"

He wanted to get up, but he was sitting on the floor out of necessity. He couldn't breathe.

Hands on him, but gentle, on his back, on his neck, keeping him steady. Tina. This thing kept happening when she was around. Mercedes was the great deterrent. Tina, not so much. He suspected she probably had her own story of schoolyard woes to carry around. Kurt didn't ask her and she didn't ask him, but here she was so understanding. And Kurt wanted to smile and show her he was alright, but he couldn't breathe. It had happened once before as a kid, he'd been knocked to the ground just like this and he knew that it was a temporary paralysis of the diaphragm, any singer knew about the diaphragm.

Timid hands on his back, half gloves of black lace. She probably thought he was crying, but he wasn't, he just couldn't breathe. Dammit. And then finally he could, short sips of air, breathing that hurt his stomach, like his diaphragm didn't know what to do.

"Thanks," he said. Tight but calm.

He got to his feet, staggering and grateful that no one was staring. Most people weren't on the side of the bullies, not anymore, and Kurt was so much in the right it wasn't even funny. Most people recognized that, he was pretty sure. Taking detours around Kurt was the idle thing to do, looking away was just plain politeness. Not like Kurt was the only one getting pushed around, not like it didn't happen all the time.

Except... no. This was a step out of the ordinary, and it was like he was the only one that noticed. This from Karofsky was the push from someone who hated him, the force of those two hands knocking him down. It wasn't the ordinary level of hazing, this was the push from someone who wanted him to get hurt. It was the danger that was new and special.

He had a problem called Karofsky, and it had taken Kurt an embarrassingly long time to acknowledge this, to acknowledge that there even was a problem in the first place. And it wasn't going away on its own.

Tina picked up his books and pencils, and he tried not to let on just how much she was actually helping, that he was too shaken to risk picking them up on his own.

In class they sat next to each other, close to the front of the classroom. Kurt was pretending to listen to the teacher, old Mr. Turner, telling a story. Something about indoor plumbing in the Victorian era. History was one of Kurt's best subjects, and Mr. Turner usually held his interest, but all he could do right now was recap, recap, recap all the things Karofsky had done to him and said to him, and it usually never took Kurt this long to resume his equilibrium. Tina kept shooting him timid glances that he couldn't return.

"Kurt? I'm sure you have something to contribute on this matter."

Mr. Turner was looking at him with an expectant look on his wrinkled face.

"I'm sorry." Kurt yawned coquettishly behind his fingertips. "I wasn't paying attention."

Laughter rippled through the classroom and Mr. Turner shot Kurt a look of puzzled disappointment.

No one else seemed willing to raise their hands to add to the discussion, and Kurt felt bad that he hadn't kept up his part of the agreement. The challenge was to come up with an answer that was mostly right, but which also contained the correct amount of opinionated ease. Mercedes called it sass. Kurt called it class. In reality it was more like showing off.

This was just what happened when Kurt-in-the-classroom was put in the spotlight. Some teachers liked it, some less so. But yes, he'd learned to read up in advance and to do his homework with extra flair and personal style, since Kurt-in-a-classroom often got the opportunity to shine.

Thankfully, it seemed last week his teachers had come together in some sort of pow wow to discuss the news of his maybe dying dad, and no one had expected anything from him to the point that they even seemed surprised that he showed up at all. Maybe Mr. Turner would spread the word: not yet fit for speaking in class.

To be honest, Kurt-in-the-classroom had been getting in trouble for some time now. The digs went deeper and the condescension blunter, as Kurt too often failed to tempt it with genuine delight and charming interest.

How forgetful of him.

It was all Karofsky's fault. No, really.

It went like this. Last term, before summer leave, Kurt had come the closest he'd ever been to getting beat up. It had been the Gaga assignment week, he'd worked hard on his costume, rhinestones glued to his high heel shoes, a white wig, and a form-fitting, silver (let's face it) dress. It had a whimsical gravitas, a costume that borrowed from French pre-revolution aristocracy and he'd balanced down the hallways of McKinley rehearsing in his head words like _fun_ , and _standing up for who he was_ , and _being artistic_ and _pushing boundaries_.

He'd thought he was about to get hammered on. Like a news story, like one of those bashing situations, right there. Two big guys, were Karofsky and Azimio, crossbreeds between giants and trolls disguised as schoolboys, and Kurt in his high heels and makeup, worrying about rhinestones falling off his shoes. And he had defied them through tears running down his face. He remembered every word like they were seared into his brain.

 _Do it. Beat me up, do it. I'm proud of being who I am. You can hit me, but it won't change who I am. I'm proud to be different. It's the best part of me._

Spoken straight from his heart, and Kurt will never know what would have happened after because that's when the rest of glee club showed up, all of them in full costume. First Finn in a red dress, then everybody and everything was laughter and cookies and togetherness.

It should have made him proud. His mettle had been tested and he'd proven to be the real deal. He didn't break and he didn't apologize.

 _You can hit me, but it won't change who I am._

Like some kind of Gaga Gandhi, inviting the abuse.

Except that it had. It had changed him. Not even a beating, just the close call of one. Since that day, he flinched more. He hesitated more. And he had his mantra running close to the surface of his mind, vivid in Technicolor, since he had the template now.

 _Do it. Hit me._

Out of Azimio and Karofsky, Karofsky was the more dangerous one. Kurt knew this based on the simple and very scientific experiment that showed that when Kurt was alone with Azimio, in class or in the corridors or on the yard, Azimio treated him... not too bad. Sure, he thought Kurt was a joke, he sneered good-naturedly and was dismissive and rude. But he was worse when he was with Karofsky. When Karofsky was with Azimio, Karofsky was better.

Karofsky without Azimio scared the crap out of Kurt.

Months of escalation, of harder pushes and harsher words, of _lethal eyes,_ and Kurt thought he knew what Karofsky wanted from him.

He'd guessed right the first time. Karofsky wanted him gone. He wanted, instead of Kurt, a stranger, a normal guy compliant and conformed. He wanted Kurt to not exist. He left Kurt with no choice.

 _Do it. Beat me up, you can never change who I am._

But. But what about next time? What about when no one showed up to save him? Kurt didn't want to end up with a fist in his face. It was enough to make him ill.

And still the mantra kept coming.


	3. Glee club

**Chapter three**

"Welcome back, everyone." Mr. Schue was wearing a big smile. "First. Kurt, we're all happy to hear the good news about your father."

Mr. Schue initiated an applause, which was picked up by everybody in the room. There was even some whops and happy laughter, and the applause went on for some time. They'd all met Burt Hummel one way or another, and Kurt could tell they were honestly glad he was better.

Kurt was sitting next to Rachel, and he began laughing from the appreciation and the shared joy. Quarrels and worries, what? This was his tribe, and they were welcoming him back. He hoped they would be working on something happy today, something for dancing and jumping around.

"Now," Mr. Schue said, "before we go into this week's assignment I thought we might take a few minutes to talk to each other about what's important in life, the search for meaning if you will."

Crap!

There were groans all around, signaling that Kurt wasn't the only one who didn't like the sound of that.

Before their teacher could get started though, Rachel got to her feet.

"Mr. Schuester," she said, her voice raised to carry. "If I may, I have something I'd like to say to my friend Kurt."

Her eyes landed on Kurt, and he peered back at her determined face with not a little bit of trepidation. Whatever she was going for could be lovely, or it could be a prelude to one of the most excruciating moments of his life. You never knew with Rachel.

Rachel took a deep breath. "I've been thinking, and I wanted to say it now, so everyone could hear." Her eyes were wide and her face serious. She didn't look away from Kurt for a second. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't a very good friend last week. I should have been there for you. Most of all, I'm sorry that I went behind your back and made you feel uncomfortable by praying for your dad in the hospital. I truly am sorry."

"That's alright," Kurt said, reeling from all the _I'm sorrys_.

He wasn't even all that mad about the hospital thing, just vaguely disquieted and disappointed. It seemed to have weighted on Rachel quite a bit though, because she smiled and seemed to melt when he accepted her apology.

Rachel sat down and somehow they ended up holding hands.

"Well, I for one am not sorry," Quinn said from the chair behind them, an edge to her voice. "I will never be ashamed for praying for somebody in need."

"I'm not asking you to," Kurt said.

He really wasn't. She shouldn't feel ashamed. It was just prayer. It was even nice, when you thought about it from a certain point of view. It meant they cared about his dad.

"Dude." Puck leaned over from the back row where he was sitting next to Santana. "You actually sneaked into his dad's room in the hospital and prayed over him. For real? That's fucked up."

"Puck," Mr. Schue sighed.

Mr. Schue always sighed at swears. As a reprimand, it was hardly effective. To be fair, the only glee members who swore on a regular basis were Puck and Santana, and Mr. Schue probably knew a losing battle when he saw it.

"No, I'm with Kurt here." Puck crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. "If my Nana was in hospital and people started bringing in their crosses and holy water, I'd be pissed too."

Puck was not helping.

"That's different," Quinn said. "You're a Jew, Kurt's an atheist. He doesn't believe in anything."

And there went the a-word, right out of the bag.

"Enough with the arguing, yo," Artie said. "Don't you think we had enough of that last week?"

Artie was a man of wisdom, and everybody ought to listen to what he said.

"Thank you, Artie." Mr. Schue straightened his back. He had his I'm-about-to-say-something-serious face on. "We have to remember that everyone is different and everyone has the right to their own beliefs. How you chose to express yourself is very personal and there is no right or wrong way to do it. It's not about being better than anybody else, it's about opening yourself up to a profound and meaningful realm of experience."

"Preach!" Mercedes called out.

Kurt had an uncannily vivid memory of her church, the gospel singers, the smiling people standing up and holding hands.

"What's important," Mr. Schue seemed to be looking straight at Kurt, "is to believe in _something_."

"Bullshit."

Oops. Impulse control.

"Kurt," Mr. Schue sighed.

"No, with all due respect, Mr. Schue." Kurt crossed his hands on top of his knee, did his best to sound cool, blasé even. This was important, he couldn't just let it slide. "It matters what you believe. As a teacher, don't you think it's just a little bit irresponsible to tell your students that there are no right and wrong answers and that any hunch is equally valid?"

"Hang on now-"

"Here's an idea," Kurt said brightly, interrupting his teacher without compunction. "We should stop having tests altogether. The French revolution got started by tiny purple aliens from outer space, I just feel it in my heart."

"I thought so," Brittany muttered.

"Settle down, Kurt," Mr. Schue said, visibly irritated. "You're deliberately misconstruing what I said. You know full well that that's not the kind of beliefs I was talking about."

Kurt knew no such thing.

Santana spoke, a loud drawl that cut through all further conversation.

"First of all," she said. "I came here to sing. This? Not singing. Second of all, who _cares_? Some people believe, some people don't, I don't see what the big deal is."

"What the big deal is?" Kurt turned around to look at her. "Have you ever had anyone tell you that you're filthy for just being who you are? Ever had anyone tell you that you have no morals, and you just want to sin?"

That's right. Kurt's had real, actual, adult-type people put him down in the name of religion. It could happen at any time, any place. Take this summer for example, he'd been alone at the mall, eating a burrito and minding his own business, when a nice little couple had decided to take it upon themselves to sit down by his table to let him know that he was "irredeemable", unless he "repented" and "changed his lifestyle".

Santana just rolled her eyes. "Has someone ever said that to me? Um, what do you think? Yes. _Yes_. Your problem, Princess, is that you're way too sensitive. You learn to get tough." There was a grim smile on her face, but her voice suddenly turned low and surprisingly kind. "Don't let them get to you."

"Yeah," Kurt said. He felt choked up. At the end of the day, nothing got to him quite like sympathy. "I just... I expect more, I think. I think people want to do better. Maybe they just don't know how. They might even think they're doing something good."

Kurt wished he had the words to explain that one. The thing was, there had been no maliciousness to the couple in the mall. They hadn't intended to make him feel bad, they were just being ignorant. Or something. Either way, it was sad.

The room fell into a thoughtful silence.

"You shouldn't talk about things you don't understand," Quinn said, her voice fell cool and calm into the silence. "Whatever you might think, not everybody who believes in God is out to get you."

"Well, aren't I lucky," Kurt said, sarcasm alive and well, thank you.

This had the potential to turn into an all-out fight.

"Alright!" Mr. Schue cleared his throat and clapped his hands together, pulling everyone's attention. "Let's move on. Can anyone tell me what a duet is?"

Mr. Schue went on to announce the duet competition, first prize a free meal at Breadstix. With impeccable timing, he also announced a new member of the club. Sam, running late with two large books under his arm, introduced himself with a smile. He was understandably rattled under the force of their combined stares, but hey. Earnest. Most everybody seemed happy to have him.

A competition and a new member proved to be excellent diversions from any potential fights about God. By the end of class, when everyone was gathering their bags and standing up, talking to each other in low voices, a susurration of anticipation, and things seemed to have finally returned to normal.

Kurt turned to Mercedes, ready to initiate a long, rewarding discussion about what direction they were going with their duet. Obviously they should sing together. But she didn't even look at him, just slung her backpack - the one Kurt had helped her pick out - over her shoulder and walked out of the room.

Mercedes? What?

Sure, he might have been avoiding her a little bit since he saw her this morning, but... she didn't even say goodbye?

"Are you alright?"

Rachel. Kurt nodded at her. Yes, he was fine, but...

"Remember that you can call me tonight if you get lonely. We can talk."

Call Rachel Berry just to talk? What had the world come to? Nice of her to say though. He smiled, touched.

"Wohoo, what's this? Taking a trip on the dark side, Hummel?"

Puck was standing at his shoulder, speaking too loudly this close to his ear.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. As per usual." Kurt rubbed his ear, a silent complaint.

"You're home alone, right? Your dad's in the hospital. No supervision. Time to get your gay freak on!" Almost a shout.

"Puck!" From both him and Rachel.

"What? I'm just saying. Live a little! Like you don't have somebody in mind for a bit of alone time." Puck grinned, a knife-edge grin with an intrusive eyebrow waggle.

"No," Kurt said. "Shut up Puck, you know nothing. Why this sudden interest in my nonexistent love life?"

Kurt Hummel had no gay freak whatsoever, no game at all to get on. Might as well establish that one right off the bat.

"No reason. Geez, just trying to be friendly."

A terrible thought struck Kurt. "There will be no parties in my home. If a bunch of drunken hooligans show up and trash the place, it's all on you."

"Got it." Puck rolled his eyes, gave Kurt a too-hard punch on his shoulder before he turned to go.

Asshole.

"He seemed weird. Did he seem weird to you?" Rachel asked.

"I never bother trying to understand what goes on in that particular head."

It wasn't like Puck had the decency to ever leave them wondering.

"Never mind," Rachel said. "Want to walk out with us?"

Almost everyone had left the room by now, though Finn had lingered by Rachel's side. Rachel reached out and grabbed Finn's arm while holding out her own for Kurt to grab. A nice, social little dance.

"Actually, Kurt," Mr. Schue said, holding up an apologetic hand. "Would you mind staying behind for a bit? I'd like to speak with you."

"Fine," Kurt said. "See you tomorrow, Rachel."

Rachel smiled at him, and her lips did a little pout of commiseration. She and Finn walked out the door together, leaving Kurt alone with Mr. Schue, who for some reason wanted to talk to him.

"Kurt," Mr. Schue started. He was leaning against the piano. "Is there anything you'd like to say to me?"

"What do you mean?" Instantly on the defensive.

For whatever reason, Kurt-in-the-classroom had never really gotten along with Mr. Schue. Mr. Schue was nice enough, Kurt supposed. It just might be that he always expected quite a lot from Mr. Schue, and therefore was continually disappointed.

"Alright." Mr. Schue rubbed his brow. "I feel like we have gotten off on the wrong foot. I just want you to talk to me. No judgment. I'm not your teacher right now. I want you to talk to me as a friend."

"Very well," Kurt said. Since you insist. He could do that. "As your friend, I would really appreciate it if you could leave off the ra ra religion talk, at least for now. In my opinion, it's _not_ helping."

"Are you going to report me again, Kurt? Are you going to get me fired?"

Right. Yes. Last week Kurt had reported Mr. Schue to the school board. That was a thing that had happened.

"You're safe for now," Kurt said airily. "I guess so far you haven't crossed the line. Not that I'm presuming to know exactly where that line _is_." He tilted his head to the side. "Are _you_?"

His thoughts went something like this: Maybe he shouldn't have repo- no. Maybe he should apolog- no. But- no. No.

Kurt was so not ready to consider backing down from that one. Besides, Mr. Schue had seemed fine with it at the time. It was still fine.

"All I was doing today was promote tolerance and open-mindedness," Mr. Schue said. His brows were doing that earnest, puppy-dog thing that only worked when you had a forehead full of wrinkles.

"You might _think_ that's all you were doing," Kurt said. He waved his hands in an agitated pantomime, trying to grasp the intangible. "You were _also_ implying that belief in God is a good thing, a personal, precious, sparkling, fragile thing that shouldn't ever be criticized."

"All beliefs should be respected."

What did that even _mean,_ "all beliefs should be respected"? Because what it seemed to mean was _shut up, Kurt._

"What if you believed in beating your children?" Kurt said. "What if you thought God told you that your child was an abomination and you threw them out on the street? It happens. It happens all the time."

"I know." Mr. Schue looked sad. "I know, and I'm sorry. But the people who believe that are fundamentalists. They have a very warped sense of the religious."

"Are you saying that fundamentalist beliefs are wrong?"

So much for "all beliefs should be respected".

"Not wrong," Mr. Schue said, "just misguided. Just like there are political extremists or extremists of any kind. They want certainty, they want something to latch on to, and so..." He made a helpless gesture of here-we-are.

Thank you, oh wise guru of social commentary.

"Don't you think it matters if God really exists or not?" Kurt asked. Because that was the actual question.

Mr. Schue shook his head. "We can't talk about God in such a simplistic way, like he's a tyrant looking down on us from a cloud."

"Who said anything about clouds?" And Mr. Schue was avoiding the actual question.

"God can't be scientifically proven one way or another," Mr. Schue continued. "To even ask that question gets us into fundamentalist territory."

"Are you saying I'm like a fundamentalist?"

"No, no, I didn't mean that at all." An apologetic smile. "But you got to admit, at least from what I've seen, your views about God are a bit on the... rigid side."

"And yours are completely incoherent!" Kurt's reply was instant and spontaneous.

"We haven't even talked about my views yet."

"That's because you don't have any!"

Mr. Schue paused, shooting him a stern glance. Which, yeah. His teacher was being remarkably patient, actually.

"Kurt. I understand you're going through a particularly hard time right now, but I don't like this newfound attitude of yours. I'm willing to make concessions, but it's been going on for a while. You've been moody, argumentative... Remember the whole Britney Spears debacle? I had to send you to the principal's office for being disrespectful in class."

Kurt looked away, adjusting the shoulder strap of his bag. On the one hand he felt ashamed for the way he was acting, on the other he didn't. He knew he was letting his bad mood get the best of him, but that was only because Mr. Schue wouldn't _listen_ to him.

"Is..." Mr. Schue was speaking quietly, a note of hesitation in his voice. "Is there something else going on that you want to talk about?"

Kurt stood mute, literally mute. One second he'd wanted his teacher to listen, and the next he felt exposed, vulnerable and slow. Was there anything he wanted to talk about?

Where to start?

No, really, Kurt had no idea.

There's this Neanderthal.

It never stops. Ever.

I'm scared. I'm being serious right now, I'm not making it up.

Glee club saved my life.

"My dad is waiting for me at the hospital."

Mr. Schue sighed. "I guess we're done for today then. Are you... okay getting there?"

"Yes, I have a car."

Mr. Schue nodded. "Drive carefully."

"Of course, Mr. Schue."

Kurt couldn't help it, he's had his absolute fill with whatever happy little heart-to-heart this had presumed to be. Without another word he turned on his heel and stomped out of the room.


	4. Tequila

**Chapter four**

It was dark when Kurt came home from the hospital. He locked the door behind him, and the first thing he did was walk down to his room in the basement, undress and turn on the shower. Wait for the hot water, step under the stream, relax. Yes.

He closed his eyes.

The visit to the hospital had been... not good. His dad was awake and coherent, but far from his usual self. The doctor had warned Kurt, his dad's had a severe heart attack, he was likely to be angry, moody, depressed. Uh-huh. Yes to all of the above.

He'd tried talking to his dad about changing his diet, and his dad had immediately shut him down. Said he had enough doctors on his case about his eating habits already, he didn't need it from Kurt as well.

Well, okay, good enough.

Come to think about it, diet was probably a pretty sore subject to his dad right now, and Kurt shouldn't have brought it up.

Damn.

He dried off and pulled on his most comfortable pair of cotton pajamas and curled up on the upstairs couch. When he started to feel cold, he went to the main bathroom and put on his dad's bathrobe, the one which had a permanent hanging place on a Mickey Mouse shaped hook by the shower. Tomorrow he was so going to put it in the hamper and do the laundry. He was going to wash everything. His dad was not going to come home to dirty clothes.

He tried to do some homework, but it mostly ended up in doodles. Hours passed, the house was totally silent. He was contemplating finding something to eat when he heard a car coming up the driveway. And parking.

There was a car outside his house.

Kurt rushed to the window, careful not to let whoever was out there see him looking out. For a moment, he didn't see anything beyond the car's headlights. Then the headlights turned off, the engine fell silent, and no one came out of the car. Whoever was out there was just sitting in the driver's seat, probably staring right at the window where Kurt was standing.

What should he do? Really, _whatever should he do_?

After an eternity, the car door opened and the driver stepped out of the car. There was just enough light to see that the person on his driveway was wearing a mohawk.

Puck, Puck. It was just Puck. Thank the metaphorical God. And wasn't that the height of irony. Kurt, relieved to see Puck.

Exasperated, Kurt glanced at the clock on the wall before he unlocked and opened the door. He recognized the car now, the same rusty Volvo 740 he'd occasionally seen Puck drive to school. Puck himself was standing down by the foot of the porch stairs, wearing a brown leather jacket and looking oddly hesitant.

"What are you doing here?" Kurt asked.

He had no patience for this. There was no good or reasonable thing Puck could conceivably say in answer to that question. What an Earth was he doing here?

Puck seemed distracted. He glanced behind himself almost like he thought he was being followed. It made Kurt nervous, and he glanced around too, but the street was silent and peaceful. Everyone had probably gone to sleep.

"Once again, Puck. What do you want?"

"Nothing. Bored." Puck climbed up the porch steps. "Hey, look at you." An obnoxious smile, as he eyed Kurt in all his pajama clad, bathroom robed glory. "You look like a guy."

"Screw you."

"No, I'm serious. You're like, normal."

Kurt rolled his eyes. Yes, yes, his hair was hanging down over his forehead, unstyled after the shower. Let's all marvel over what a little product and a good hair dryer can do.

No one at school would have guessed, but when Kurt was at home he tended to dress way down. His dad preferred it, and as long as they were alone it made sense to indulge him by occasionally looking like a slob. It was the polite thing to do.

Besides, it was comfortable. Comfort had its place.

As surprise late-night visits had not.

"Aren't you going to let me in?"

"It's eleven o'clock!"

"So? Were you planning to sleep anytime soon?"

Not really, no. Standing in the open doorway, Kurt hesitated.

"Move, Hummel."

Kurt didn't so much let Puck inside as step aside to avoid being trampled.

Unreal.

Kurt closed the door behind them while Puck was lumbering into the living room, not even bothering to remove his jacket.

"Nice flat screen TV!" Puck called out.

"Uh-huh."

The TV was new, his dad had bought it less than a month ago. Kurt hadn't been using it. For some reason he found it disconcerting to sit all alone in front of the large screen, lights and shadows flickering all over the empty house. If Puck came here to watch TV - no, that was stupid. Kurt felt dense, like he was half asleep and not quite sure what was going on.

"Hey, do you have any booze?"

"Absolutely not."

Was that it? Puck came for the _booze_? Typical. At least the world made sense again.

Puck was in the kitchen now, Kurt could hear him opening and closing cabinets.

"Cut that out," Kurt said. He stepped into the kitchen.

Puck, ignoring him, made a pleased sound as he opened the high cupboard where Kurt's dad was keeping his small collection of bottles. The _stash_ as Puck probably would say. His dad wasn't much for hard liquor, some of the bottles might have been in there for years, hardly sampled.

"Hey, tequila."

Puck brought out a bottle and put it on the table. Two shot glasses were placed next to the bottle. Puck took a seat and imperiously slapped his palm on the table as if to say _sit down_ and _drink_. There were two glasses. For some reason Puck wanted to drink together with Kurt.

"No way." Kurt crossed his arms.

Kurt Hummel did not drink alcohol. Or, well... Kurt Hummel did not drink alcohol anymore. Drinking alcohol led to indignity and humiliation and throwing up on the guidance counselor's shoes.

Or, you know, something less specific.

"Like you didn't do some drinking last week," Puck said. "Sit. Down." A clear order.

Puck filled both glasses to the brim with darkish yellow liquid. Kurt could smell it from where he stood.

"I don't drink," he muttered.

But he could feel himself surrendering. It was like all his resolve had been pretense, and he just... let it go.

"Well, now's the time," Puck said in a brisk, almost friendly way.

That's true. So what if he didn't usually drink? He could do it now.

Kurt sat down. Puck picked up both glasses. One of them he lifted to his mouth, while simultaneously placing the other on the table in front of Kurt. Puck held his own glass in a weird backwards way, probably in order to avoid looking dainty, a macho man drinking from a very tiny glass.

Poser.

"Well?" Puck said, once he put the empty glass down.

Well? Well, the drink was right there. Puck made a very compelling case.

Kurt lifted his glass with both hands and sipped.

Disgusting.

"Drink it like a man."

"Screw you."

There was something about Puck that made it easy to be rude. Maybe it was just that he'd started it, so. Maybe that's why the thought of drinking alcohol and inevitably behaving like and ass in front of him didn't seem so bad. It was Puck. Whatever Kurt said or did under the influence of his dad's liquor, Puck had done way worse. Way, way worse.

Kurt held his breath and swallowed everything there was in the glass in one big gulp. He made a face. And then he continued making a face when the taste didn't go away. Puck laughed as if it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen.

"This is horrible!" Kurt said. "Hang on, I guess this is the point of biting into slices of lime after you drink? Too bad- wait, I know what to do."

If something were to be done it should be done right.

He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a jar of pickled ginger, a leftover from the sushi Friday dinner he had prepared, well, months ago. There weren't that many opportunities for pickled ginger. Except for right now. Kurt put his fingers in the jar, fished out a slice, put it in his mouth and chewed. Wiped his fingers on the front of his robe, with only a tiny bit of an internal wince.

Puck so didn't deserve manners.

The ginger did the trick, pallet cleansed, voila. Genius. Kurt put the open jar on the table with two small forks on the side.

"What are you waiting for?" he said to Puck. "Pour me another one."

He drank three tiny glassfuls, one after the other. Drink, ginger, drink, ginger, drink, ginger. The fourth glass he mostly spilled down his chin. He wiped it with the sleeve of his robe.

Take that, home invader.

"You're a lightweight, Hummel."

"And don't you forget it."

Puck laughed.

"Wait," Kurt said. "Am I the only one who's drinking?

"I drove here, remember?"

"But... only one drink?" Kurt was weirdly piqued that Puck didn't plan to join him in his drunkenness after all. "What would Billy Joel say? What happened to 'only the good die young'?"

"Billy Joel was saying yes to sex, not alcohol. Billy Joel would in fact not recommend drunk driving." Puck said it with such patience as to sound insulting.

"Fine. And on that note, I can't _believe_ you chose that song to sing in glee. Could you possibly have been more inappropriate?"

He gave Puck his sternest look. Or his most squinting look, as something about Puck seemed to be out of focus. Kurt felt, not drunk exactly, but reckless. He felt like he could say anything and there would be no consequences.

"The mouse roars," Puck said, and filled Kurt's glass.

The mouse? Right. Screw you once again, Puck.

Kurt swallowed the drink and slammed the glass down on the table. "You were singing a song about seducing a Catholic school girl, with Quinn right there in the room. Quinn. The Catholic school girl that _you_ impregnated. She had to listen to that. We all did! That's not just awkward, you have a genuine deficiency."

Just to be clear about that.

The look on Puck's face was hard to decipher. He wasn't talking though, and Kurt opted to take advantage of his silence.

"Seriously, did you do that on purpose?" Come to think of it, _did_ Puck do those things on purpose? That was a good question! He pointed at Puck, the finger of truth. "Is that what happened? Did you say to yourself 'they already think the worst of me, might as well _exceed_ their expectations'?"

"Hey!" Puck said. "It wasn't like that. And stop psychoanalyzing me, you suck at it."

"I don't think I do. I think _in vino veritas_. Hit me again."

Hit me. That's what they said in the movies. Puck didn't look happy, but he filled Kurt's glass.

Drink, ginger. Kurt felt warm. He felt nice and clear and quick, in a dizzy sort of way.

"I didn't think about it like that," Puck said. He was staring down at his own empty glass, and he sounded like he was talking to himself. "It was just something to sing, something about sex and religion. And like you're one to talk." Puck glanced up, gave Kurt a flat stare. "Tell me, what would _your_ spiritual song have been? Supposing you had to pick one."

"There's literally no songs for me to pick," Kurt said, his voice going dark. Stupid, unfair assignment.

"Oh, poor you," Puck didn't sound impressed. "You could have picked almost anything. Think about it, there's literally no _un_ spiritual songs."

"On the contrary." Kurt reached out his glass to be served. "I submit to you that all songs that doesn't mention God or religion are _without_ God and religion and therefore not religious."

Did that make sense? Sure it did, everything made perfect sense. His brain was on fire, he was quicksilver quick.

"So you would have picked a song specifically about God?" Puck was smiling a bit.

" _Against_ God," Kurt said, and then giggled because he so wouldn't have. The thought was preposterous, and it was an awful impulse that put it in his head. Although... it would have been funny to see the looks on their faces. Especially Mr. Schue's.

Puck looked amused. "Does any such songs exist?"

"Sure! There's..." Nothing. Then he had it. "Bad religion! Don't pray on me! Better off dead!"

"Are those actual titles of real songs?" Puck spoke almost pityingly.

How drunk did he think Kurt _was_?

"Bad Religion is a punk rock band from in the 1980s, still going strong. How can you not know this?"

"I think the pertinent question is, how can _you_ know that?"

"Pertinent?"

"It's a word."

"I know it's a word. How do you know it's a word? That is the pertinent question."

Take that, assuming making assuming guy just like everybody else making assumptions. So what if Bad Religion was the _only_ punk rock band Kurt listened to? He was still not a box.

"Not a box!" Kurt shouted, toasting the ceiling.

Drink, ginger.

He wasn't a box. He was free.

Besides, punk inspired loads of fashion, just ask his shoes.

"I so could have done it," Kurt mused. He could see it clearly. "Plaid pants, black eyeliner, black _hair_. Piercings. Fake piercings. Nooo," he interrupted himself, breathless and inspired. So obvious! "Nooo. I know what I should have singed." Sung? Sanged? Whatever. "Jesus. Christ. Superstar."

"Right."

Puck gave up on filling his glass and just handed him the bottle.

Kurt grinned. "Every song, perfection. Perfect. All of them. I could do them right now. Also _Evita. The Phantom._ And _the Sound of Music_ , obviously."

He could also do _The Little Mermaid_. And _Wicked_ , although his feelings towards that one had become complicated. It was true that a few of the songs were intended for voices that went below what he could comfortably sing, but then he could just move them up one octave. In a musical theatre of one, Kurt was the director and the king, and all roles went to Kurt.

"Why am I not surprised?" Puck said.

Whatever. Puck wished he was this cultured.

Kurt held the bottle as a microphone and sang, slow and keen.

" _I only want to say  
_ _If there is a way  
_ _Take this cup away from me  
_ _For I don't want to taste its poison  
_ _Feel it burn me"_

"Dude. You do know that's a song about Jesus?"

Puck didn't sound at all as elated as that song deserved. Also, how could Kurt _not_ know it was a song about Jesus? That is, a musical variant of Jesus that _didn't count_.

" _I don't know how to love him_ ," Kurt sang. Perfection.

"Oh, please no."

Clearly not one of Puck's favorite songs ever. How was that even _possible_?

" _All your followers are blind  
_ _Too much heaven on their minds_ "

Judas had the best lines.

"Give me that."

Puck reached for the bottle. Would have taken it too, if Kurt hadn't been quick as a cat and graceful as a gazelle.

"I think you're wasted."

"I think I _like_ it that way."

Yes, Kurt was going to get very, very drunk. Just for now, just for tonight, there would be no limit to his drunkenness. Thus decided, he drank directly from the bottle. Strange how the taste didn't bother him anymore. He drank again.

A very short time later, Puck was telling him funny stories about pool cleaning and getting things stuck in drains, and Kurt was aware that he was a complete and total mess, but he didn't care.

"You! Did! Not!" he shouted, scandalized and loud.

"I absolutely did," Puck said, laughing. "What was I supposed to do? It was her _mother_."

Kurt snorted into his bottle. Puck was disgusting. And wildly indecent. Famous for it, in fact. Duh. Wait. Hang on. There was something Kurt had to say. It was his duty. His moral duty. He'd said it to Brittany, he should say it to Puck. No gender discr- discum- no gender. All morality was the same.

"Puck."

"Yeah?"

"Pu-uck."

"Ye-ah?"

"You have sex with a lot of people."

"Not sleeping with you, Hummel. Guys don't do it for me."

"Of course not, shut up." Idiot. "What I meant was, was, was... do you like it?"

"What's not to like?"

"No! You tell me."

"It has its ups and downs," Puck said. Then he grinned. "Mostly ups."

"Ew. Shut u-up!"

Puck always talked about stuff no one wanted to hear.

"You asked," Puck laughed.

"Only because I'm sh. Shhh..."

"Shitfaced?"

"HA!"

Puck was funny. Who knew?

"Maybe it's time to sleep," Puck said.

Boring!

Kurt sang into the bottle. " _I don't know how to loooove him."_

"Please don't."

 _"What to do, how to move him. He's a maaan."_

"You're off key, genius."

No, he wasn't. Was he? No. Say it wasn't so! This was terrible, it was bad. He was bad. Baaad. Kurt blew into the bottle, and the bottle made a deep _hoo_ sound. Like an owl. A tone deaf owl. A tone deaf owl that was all alone without his dad. Kurt blew again.

 _Hoo._

 _Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo. Hoo._

 _Hoo._

"Alright." Puck stood up. Puck was very tall. Kurt tilted his head back, and the room tilted with him. "Think you can manage on your own?" Puck's voice came from the other side of the ceiling.

Kurt took a deep breath and sang at a volume that could reach all the way through:

 _"I CAN'T RELATE TO YOU, I CAN'T RELATE TO YOU, I CAN'T RELATE TO YOU-U"_

Punk, motherfucker.

"Alright, I'll help you."

Puck pulled him up off the chair and walked him out of the kitchen. The doorway was slowly spinning. Wheel of fortune, tick, tick, tick.

"Wait. Stop."

"What?"

What? Why? How?

"Water. I should drink lots of water."

"Why?"

"Because I sh. I sshh."

"Alright."

Alright. See, Puck was nice.

Puck lowered Kurt to sit on the padded bench in the hallway. Hallway? Yes. This was where his dad always sat when he put on his shoes. His shoes. Kurt thought he might be levitating. He had no weight. He was floating in mid-air, but it wasn't strange, because in space there was no up or down. There was only space in space. Shoes.

"Here you are." Puck handed him a large glass of water.

"What?"

"Drink it."

Kurt took the water. It floated from the glass down to his stomach. Like magic.

"Now what?"

"Now we go to bed."

Kurt giggled.

"I'm not sleeping with you." Puck said.

"I know!"

It was still funny. Bed. Go to bed.

"Well? Are you going to get up?"

"No. I like it here. Dad. Shoes."

Everything fit together.

Puck sighed. Grabbed Kurt under his arm and pulled. Kurt let himself be pulled. Being pulled was kind of nice.

"So which way to your room?"

Kurt giggled.

"Stop that."

"I know!"

Kurt started making his way towards the basement, Puck supporting him with an arm across his back.

"Puck?"

"Yeah?"

"Mercedes gave me a bible."

"She did?" Absently. "Wait, she did what?"

"A bible. This morning."

"Seriously? That's way out of line."

"Uh-huh. Thank you for understanding. You're the most understanding guy ever."

"Fuck, Hummel. Enough with the hugging. I will drop you."

Kurt didn't remember walking down the stairwell, but he remembered putting his head on his pillow. The pillow was cool and soft under his cheek.

When the alarm clock woke him up in the morning, Puck was gone.

And so was the flat screen TV.


	5. Bus

**Chapter five**

Kurt took the bus to school. Several of the students who were already onboard glared at Kurt as he found an empty seat and sat down, reminding him why he'd stopped taking the bus in the first place. But honestly? The stares didn't bother him at all. He was too busy thinking about how Puck was a _thief_.

Kurt wouldn't even have discovered it yet, if he hadn't happened to walk into the living room this morning, looking for he didn't know what. Maybe he'd expected to find Puck sleeping on the sofa. Instead he'd found an empty wall where the TV had used to be.

Well. That just... that took all the cakes.

It was so blatant, so stupid. Kurt couldn't even bring himself to be personally hurt by it, it was just so stupid. What had Puck been thinking? Was it an impulse thing? See nice TV, take nice TV? Or did he think so little of Kurt that he, what? Thought Kurt had lost all right of ownership? No, it made no sense.

Kurt leaned his head back on the headrest and closed his eyes.

By all accounts, he should have woken up this morning with a pounding headache and an aversion to loud noises, but that hadn't happened. No hangover. He felt a little bit queasy, a little bit on edge, that's all. Maybe his constitution was just that good.

Or maybe he was still a little bit drunk.

It was this suspicion that had prompted him to take the bus, which in turn made him think of Puck and his talk about staying away from drunk driving and _what the hell?_ Had Puck been thinking about robbing Kurt before he'd even entered the house? Was that what Puck had been thinking about while he poured Kurt drink after drink in the kitchen? Had he just been waiting for Kurt to fall asleep?

Puck owed him an explanation. And groveling. Puck owed him a lot of groveling. _And_ he wanted the TV back, pronto. His dad trusted Kurt to take care of the house in his absence, and his dad was _not_ going to come home to an empty space where the TV had used to be.

Kurt opened his eyes when he heard people around him getting up off their seats. He looked out the window. Oh. They were already at the school. The bus stopped, and Kurt got to his feet, adjusting his jacket. He was shoved twice as he walked out of the bus, hands pushing him from behind, but he ignored it with unprecedented efficiency. It was nothing. Now to find Puck. The thief. The very guilty culprit.

Kurt stalked into the school, not even bothering to glance towards the area of the dumpsters, which was usually a danger zone. Whatever. Kurt was on a mission of retribution. That's right. He could feel his whole face settling into a vindictive smile. He looked forward to hearing what Puck could conceivably have to say for himself. Whatever it was, it would be _good._

The hallways were crowded. Kurt kept looking around, trying to catch sight of Puck's red jacket and distinctive hairstyle. Unfortunately, mohawks were sorely lacking this morning. Which weren't altogether surprising, all things considered. Kurt shared two classes with Puck, math and English, although they tended not to interact, Kurt sitting in the front and Puck in the back, always. And Puck being such a delinquent he all too frequently didn't show up for class at all _._

Kurt walked up and down the halls at a brisk pace, but it seemed more and more like Puck wasn't in this morning. Damn. Puck had better not be avoiding him, or Kurt would add _coward_ to his list of grievances, and he'd never let Puck forget about it.

"Kurt! Kurt, wait!"

Also, it seemed his hunt was about to be interrupted by one Rachel Berry.

"Kurt, stop!"

Kurt stopped and turned around to see Rachel marching towards him, looking much like a very short, slender, dark eyed, killer robot. Students right and left got out of her way, and she didn't even seem to notice. She stopped in front of him, opened her laptop, and promptly turned the screen in his direction.

"Have you seen this?"

Hello to you to, Rachel. How do you do? Me? Well, I'm looking for Puck, thank you for asking. No, you're not interrupting at all.

"Just look at it!"

Her face was insistent and firm, and she poked him on his arm with the edge of her laptop. The laptop was pink. It wasn't the good, vibrant kind of pink, but a horrid pastel hue. There was too much white in it, in the pastelpink, making it a pale, unnatural color that did not bode well for whatever Rachel wanted him to see.

(And no, Kurt didn't believe in omens, it was just that sometimes an idea got into his head and it was hard to shake. Especially when he wasn't feeling very well, that's when the occasional and _irrational_ notions about signs and omens were the hardest to dismiss. Never mind all the other times he'd seen Rachel with her laptop and all he'd thought was, _wow ugly._ )

Kurt had a conflicted, queasy relationship with certain configurations of pastel.

"Kurt!"

Whatever one might say about Rachel, she had drive. Right now that drive seemed to be fueled by anger and indignation. She wasn't angry at Kurt, though. She was angry about something on her laptop, and Kurt had no time for this. His TV had been stolen, and so on and so forth.

"You've got to read it," she said. "I know you don't want to, who would? But you _need_ to. This is just- Not that I was expecting anything better from that creepy little rodent. But this is unacceptable!"

Kurt looked around for Puck, one last ditch effort. He saw two red jackets, but their wearers both had a full head of hair. Fine. Kurt could deal with whatever Rachel insisted was worth his time. Puck would keep. His TV wouldn't be any less stolen later in the day.

"Okay. What's going on, Rachel?"

Yes, patience. Kurt had it.

"This!"

She gave her palepink laptop an insistent shake. Kurt looked down at-

The blog of Jacob Ben Israel, most prominently featuring a picture of Rachel herself wearing her Brittany Spears outfit. The angle was... well, Kurt had never realized how big Rachel's breasts would look if you were looking _up_ at her like that.

"Oh," Kurt said. "I'm sorry."

He wasn't sure what she expected him to say. Rachel was right, Ben Israel was a creepy little rodent. A creepy little rodent who had an unhealthy fixation with Rachel – that was well established. Though it was unusual for her to draw attention to that fact. _Once_ Kurt had heard her refer to Ben Israel's relentless attentions as "the price of fame." She'd never made any mention of the Jewish thing. That is, the hard-to-ignore _thing_ where a guy named Ben Israel were going after Rachel, one of the few, if not the only, Jewish girls in school. Why? Seriously, why? Did Ben Israel think he had some sort of a special claim on Rachel just because they had that other thing in common? It really was disturbing in a you're-mine-and-so-are-your-future-rodent-children kind of way. He couldn't blame her for finally letting it get to her.

"What?" Rachel said. "No, not _that._ Read the article. Go on."

She pressed a key on the keyboard, scrolling down until the screen only showed the text below. It was worrying that she thought the text was more noteworthy than the picture of herself.

"I don't want to," Kurt said.

"It's about _you_."

"And suddenly I want to do it even less."

"Just read it!"

Well, since he _had_ to. Kurt turned his attention back to the screen.

The title unhelpfully read _The Glee Club Does It Again_. With great reluctance, Kurt began to scan through the rest of it, his eyes automatically skipping past the most odious parts of the text.

 _It's well documented how the PC Nazis at this school have been allowed to run amuck and censor the content of numerous social media and personal musings of private individuals, particularly this very blog, faithful readers. This time the story has a twist! Our very own Kurt Hummel, glee club gay extraordinaire, well known for... skip... skip... none too pleased when the songs in question were spiritual in nature. You read that right, gentle reader, Kurt Hummel took it upon himself to complain about his fellow glee members' song selections for religious reasons - or should we say NON-religious reasons. And he took his complaints all the way to the school board!_

 _One would have thought the school board would have more pressing things to consider, considering the abysmal bullying situation in this sorry excuse for a public school. The least they could do is take some responsibility while the most promising, most intelligent students are crushed under the heels of jocks and academic underachievers! But oh no, it's maintaining the control of free speech, that's what we're going to be concerned about! Would you care to make a guess about what happened? That's right, the school board folded like a wet suit in an Asian bordello. In a stunning twist of irony the snake has started to eat its own tail! I don't care what kind of song it is, when you silence the voices... tyranny of government... skip... skip..._

 _Far be it from me to comment on somebody's personal life jk lol, but don't be too hard on young Mr. Kurt Hummel right now. A little bird has whispered in my ear that his dearest pater familias, his big daddy, himself no stranger to this blog, dear readers (See_ _here_ _)... not out of the woods yet... skip... skip... guess who wears the apron in that household... I'm not insinuating a thing, but you've got to admit… and did you see the SKIRT he wore to school a few weeks ago? (If not, click_ _here_ _.) I ask you, what kind of father would allow his SON to… mere idle speculation... don't mind me… libel... lawsuit... death..._

"Why," Kurt lamented. "Why, Rachel? Why did you do this to me?"

Rachel closed the laptop and tucked it away under her arm.

"I though you needed to know," she said. Frowning at him like _of course you need to know, what's wrong with you?_

"You thought wrong," Kurt said, a dark, slow statement of fact.

"But, Kurt-"

"You thought wrong," Kurt repeated in the same tone of voice.

"I was going to warn you not to read the comments, except-"

"I got it."

"You've got to be proactive about these kinds of things. My dads keep talking to Mr. Figgins, who keeps making him take some of the stuff down. Protesting does pay off. It your dad talked to my dads-"

"No."

"You can't just ignore-"

"No, Rachel, no. Read my lips _no_. I'm not going to talk to my dad right now. He shouldn't have to deal with this. No."

"And you think _I_ should?"

"I really don't. But Rachel, he's not even out of the hospital yet."

"But-"

"Not even out of the hospital."

Sometimes with Rachel you had speak very simple words and repeat them as many times as needed.

"Maybe I'll tell him later, when he's home and rested and cleared for driving." He never, ever would, but it was amusing to imagine, in a doomed, bizarro-world kind of way. He smirked. "By then I'm sure he'll feel well enough to commit major homicide."

Rachel opened her mouth, closed it again.

"What?" Kurt laughed. "Like _your_ dads have never considered it. Like _you_ haven't considered it. You dream about it sometimes, in great detail. Admit it."

Maybe he _was_ still a little bit drunk.

"Kurt!" Rachel poked him with the edge of her laptop, a punishment this time. A punishment for speaking like a loon.

"It's _fine_ ," Kurt said. "Violent fantasies are a natural response to being violated. And you know what? _This,"_ he pointed at the laptop, "is a violation. I get enough of it in person, I don't need to seek it out. Neither do you, in my opinion. We both know it's out there, why give them the satisfaction of actually-"

"That's easy for you to say!"

"Nu-huh." Kurt smiled with half closed eyes, to give the impression wisdom and great serenity. "Once Jacob Ben Israel's body is found, half buried in the woods, his hands chewed off by wild dogs, the suspects will be too many for the police to process. And at least _then_..." Kurt gave Rachel a meaningful stare. "At least then I'll be able to say, 'No, Mr. Police Officer, no. I never, ever.'" Pause. "'Read his blog.'"

Rachel laughed, a loud burst of shocked amusement. She put her small hand over her mouth, eyes still showing her mirth. Then she shot him a sober, questioning glance, as if to check that he wasn't being serious after all, and he smirked and shook his head, telling her no. No, he wasn't serious, but what could you do? Might as well laugh about it together.

Rachel winked at him and mimed zipping her mouth shut.

Rachel was kind of great.

That is, he quickly amended, if you were able to ignore all those _numerous_ times when she wasn't.

He and Rachel walked together in silence until they were close to her locker, and she silently took her leave. Her parting stare spoke volumes though. It was saying _we're not done here._ And _I still think you needed to know._

Nah.

No. No, he really didn't. Kurt didn't need that kind of garbage in his head.

(Except... weren't complaints to the school board supposed to be anonymous? How had Ben Israel even learned about that? Maybe it was a rumor, or a conversation he'd overheard in the cafeteria. Surely no one in glee club had voluntarily talked to the wannabe paparazzi? Surely they wouldn't do that to Kurt, even when it came to this? Surely it didn't really matter, surely Ben Israel together with his insinuating, gossip-ridden blog would get _eaten by dogs_ and disappear from the face of the Earth. And there would be much rejoicing. Now shut up about that creep, don't even think about it, put it out of your head.)

Kurt had more pressing things on his mind. Like Puck, for instance. The thief who had yet to answer for his crimes. But yeah, the morning crowd was already starting to thin out, and Kurt had no choice but to get ready for class.

Mercedes was waiting for him by his locker.

"Hey." She smiled, a tentative smile.

"Hi," Kurt said.

He was a bit taken aback to see her standing there, but he really shouldn't have been. Of course Mercedes was waiting for him. She almost always did. Before things could get too awkward between them, Kurt found himself blurting out a question:

"Have you seen Puck?"

"Puck?" She blinked several times. "Why are you looking for _Puck_?"

She sounded so puzzled it was almost funny. Except no, because Puck was a thief.

"I just want to talk to him, it's kind of a long story."

She'd love that story, though. Kurt had gotten drunk and sung Mary Magdalene. To Puck. And maybe... hugged him? The memory was fuzzy. And when Kurt had fallen asleep, Puck had - absurdly - taken Kurt's dad's TV. Okay, so it was a little bit funny. Kurt still wanted to give Puck a chance to explain himself before he told anyone else about it. Puck probably didn't deserve the consideration, but there you are. Kurt was just that generous.

What had Puck been _thinking_?

"Listen..." Mercedes bit her lip. "Are we okay?"

Talking about the previous day in glee, talking about this whole unspoken, unresolved _thing_ between them.

"Sure," Kurt said. "Of course we are. We're fine."

His assurances weren't as reassuring as they should have been, as witnessed by the fact that they had to be made in the first place. There was a beat of silence, and they simply stared at each other, neither of them saying a word. What was going on, were they broken or weren't they? Kurt couldn't tell, and evidently neither could Mercedes.

"How's your dad?" Mercedes finally asked. She wore a hopeful smile, building bridges.

"Better," Kurt nodded, building bridges right back. "I visited him yesterday."

And then he'd went on and on about his dad's diet. Dammit.

"Did you, you know. Read to him?" Mercedes tilted her head to the side.

"No. I did not."

A short answer. A clear message for her to drop it.

"Why not?"

She wasn't dropping it.

"He wasn't in the mood."

"But did you ask him?"

"No," Kurt said. "No, I didn't _ask_ him. No, I didn't bring a _bible_ to the hospital. It's still in my locker."

And now he just sounded ill-tempered. Well, that's how he felt. _Come on!_ Of course he wouldn't bring a bible to the hospital. Mercedes ought to know this by now.

"Don't get mad," she said, a low-voiced plea.

"Sorry." Kurt looked down.

He couldn't think of a good way to talk about it. But he should try, right? He didn't want her to think he was just being angry for no reason. Actually, he didn't want to be angry at all. Not with Mercedes.

She rubbed her hands together in a rare gesture of nervousness. "Maybe I shouldn't have given it to you in the first place. I was just remembering me and my dad, and how reading from the bible helped us get closer. I wanted that for you. Was that so wrong?"

Kurt sighed, one slow exhale.

"I don't know," he said. Thinking as he talked. "It's complicated. Me and my dad never talk about that kind of stuff. It would have been weird for us to start reading from the Bible. Since we-we don't do that."

It was a stuttery explanation, but at least it wasn't a door slammed in her face.

Mercedes' eyebrows flew up. "You _never_ talk about it? At _all_? Sorry, but... why not?"

"I don't know," Kurt said. He shrugged. "I suppose neither of us thought it was important."

She gaped at him like he was suddenly speaking Chinese.

"Not everybody goes to church every week," he said.

He watched himself very carefully with that one. Even threw in an apologetic grimace, like he was aware of being the odd one out, the key without a lock, the boy without a church.

The conciliatory tone worked wonders.

"Oh, I know." She smiled, light and honest and real. "I do know that. And that's fine, to each their own, I'm not saying anything else."

The tension had evaporated, just like that.

And then the bell rang.

Kurt did a restless little look-around. The hallway was starting to clear out, it was time to get a move on, although he could tell from the way she was standing that she had something else to say. Their eyes met. Yup. He knew that look, that particular grin slowly overtaking her face. She had a piece of good news that she was dying to share. She had probably just been waiting for things to be alright between them before she was ready to let him know.

She leaned closer, and he smiled in anticipation.

"I've met somebody," she whispered, her eyes sparkling. She was bouncing on her toes. "I mean, I've known him for a while, but now he's _noticing_ me, if you know what I mean."

"Wahhhh!"

Kurt hadn't meant to scream. Or squeal, whatever. Mercedes laughed, and they spent a few moments clutching hands and sniggering into each other's faces. Yes, thank you, this was how things were supposed to go.

"His name is Joshua," she said. "He's a senior at Carmel High, and he's really, really nice. Like really nice, you don't even know. I haven't told anyone yet, especially not my parents. They're close to his parents, and they'd just be _too_ happy about it, if you know what I mean. Besides, we're just talking, I'm not even sure where it's going yet. We're taking it slow."

She was so excited. He felt happy for her.

"Thanks for telling me, Mercedes."

"Of course, you're my best friend."

"Yes, I am." Pretend indignation.

"Oh, shut up."

"But what's he like, your Joshua, besides being so very nice?"

This was new territory for them. They weren't discussing celebrities or exchanging meaningful glances about random, unattainable guys on the street. They were talking boyfriend. For real. It was huge.

"Okay. Okay. Don't take this the wrong way, but..." She spoke in a whisper, even though by now they were almost alone in the hall. "He's _gorgeous._ Like model perfect gorgeous. I know it's not the most important thing, but Kurt, he makes me weak in the knees."

Oh, my.

"Of course it's important," he said, kind of indignant that she was suggesting anything else. "Looks aren't everything, but don't sell yourself short. You deserve somebody _fine_ , girl."

She giggled, and hid her face behind her hand. She seemed to be blushing.

Before they had to separate to rush off to class, they hugged.

* * *

It was ten o'clock, and Kurt was rooting through his locker, making an effort to organize all of his homework. He had a lot of reading to do in biology and history. And that French paper. In theory he could hand it in right now, but he really should put some more effort into the final presentation in order to keep his neat little line of French A:s unbroken. Oh, and that poem they were supposed to write for English class, he only had until tomorrow and he wasn't even clear about the topic. Something about war, was it?

It was remarkable how quickly things piled up. Kurt was starting to get a whole new sense of sympathy and understanding for those slacker students who were wasting their time in school sabotaging their own future.

Slackers like Puck, for instance, who still hadn't shown up. The stealing, thieving...

That's when a big hand slammed into the locker to Kurt's left. _Bang!_ Another hand grabbed the open locker door to his right. Kurt's turned around, a narrow, breathless rotation. He felt his heart in his throat, beating away. It was just as he thought. Karofsky. Karofsky had him boxed in. Kurt was standing with his open locker to his back, Karofsky in his way, Karofsky's giant arms blocking his escape. And Kurt had been caught completely unawares. He... he'd forgotten.

He'd forgotten about Karofsky.

Karofsky was looming over him. Staring, just staring down at Kurt. Too close with nowhere to go.

Everything slowed down. What was it with his brain that made it register everything? Karofsky's hard eyes. His wide face and sharp, arching brows. The sour stench of Karofsky's sweat - did he ever wash his jacket? - the obviously thin quality to the hair on Karofsky's forehead. He would be bald in ten years. Kurt had heard somewhere that a balding head was a sign of high testosterone. Karofsky's brain must be swimming in the stuff.

"Hey, homo," Karofsky said.

His voice was low, nothing light about it. It seemed to Kurt that Karofsky was showing his true face, and what his true face was, was darkness. Drained of emotion, there was no trace of the joking, jeering tone he used when he was with Azimio. This was just Karofsky, staring down at him like Kurt was nothing and nothing Kurt could say would make any bit of difference.

"You make me sick," Karofsky said. A colorless pronouncement. "Look at you. Disgusting."

The way Karofsky's mouth twisted then, thin lips like he wanted to throw up. Like it was that disgusting. Karofsky's fingers clenching, metal groaning, big arms stiff and heaving, like they were barely keeping Karofsky back, barely keeping Karofsky's weight from falling on Kurt like a boulder.

Kurt made a sound that didn't pretend to be speech. A small squeak. Similar to the mouse Puck had likened him with. He felt light headed. Karofsky had him trapped, standing too close, the opening of the locker pressed up against Kurt's back. He would have escaped inside, except it was too small for him to fit.

"Wha..." Kurt tried to breathe, tried to make room in the small space Karofsky had him boxed in. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to fuck off," Karofsky said. "I want to you stop being so fucking..."

Karofsky didn't say what, but his mouth did that again, like it was that disgusting.

Kurt wanted to push at Karofsky, at his massive chest, push him away. Except that wouldn't work. Kurt's arms wouldn't work. There were people all around them. A round-faced girl on the other side of Karofsky's arm, shooting Kurt a hesitant look before turning back to her locker. That tall, thin guy from history class looking at them and looking away, disinterested. Why was nobody noticing how very not-normal this was?

"Leave me alone." There was no power in Kurt's voice.

"You got it backwards. You're the one who needs to go."

Karofsky took one small step back - leaving? - but no, Karofsky just shifted his grip on the locker door, and. And he slowly pushed it shut. Pushed the door until it lay against Kurt's chest. Closing his locker on Kurt. Not hard, a steady, gentle press, a great force held in check, the danger behind Karofsky's eyes. The mirthless threat.

Kurt couldn't move.

"I can't stand to look at you," Karofsky said, staring down at Kurt. "I can't stand your fairy dust face, I can't stand your fancy, cocksucking voice, always talking all the time." A gentle press. "Everyone hates you, Hummel."

"No, they don't," Kurt breathed. "That's just you."

Why was he even arguing? He was going to die.

Another push, with more force this time, the door a hard line down his chest. And oh, Kurt's heart was beating and he started pushing back, at long last. Pushing against the door, against Karofsky's arm, twisting to get free.

Like that was all Karofsky had been waiting for, he let Kurt go. All at once, immediately. He let go of the door and stepped back, hands raised in an incongruous gesture of innocence. Karofsky smirked, and his face lost that empty, scary look. A shrug, another smirk before walking away with a sly glance and a familiar, "See ya, homo," over his shoulder.

Like none of it had really happened.

But it had.

Kurt stood there looking after him, a hard line still pressing down on his chest. He watched people get out of Karofsky's way, watched some smile at him, watched the guy from history class greet him with a friendly holler and slap to the shoulder.

Kurt's hands were shaking. He felt like crying.

That. That had been the worst encounter so far. And Karofsky hadn't even touched him. Had just trapped him, stared at him, pressed the door against his chest. But...

But nothing. It couldn't go on. That was all there was to it. Kurt couldn't let it happen again and again and again, and then go back to thinking it wasn't that bad and that Karofsky couldn't really touch him.

It wasn't. It wasn't nothing. Karofsky could no longer be ignored.

Kurt didn't need another wakeup call.

Karofsky was a problem. Karofsky was a problem, and Kurt didn't have a choice. He had to fix it. He didn't know how, but he knew he had to solve this thing. No more putting if off and waiting and hoping and _forgetting_. No more living in denial.

Kurt had to use his brain and make the problem go away.


	6. Santa

**Chapter six**

Since _forgetful_ seemed to be his new normal, Kurt had accordingly forgotten about the glee competition, and lunch was all about scrambling to find a duet partner. Of course everybody had already paired off. Of course no one had asked Kurt. (No, he wasn't bitter, shut up.)

Rachel was with Finn, and Tina was with Mike, no surprises there. Quinn had snatched the new guy, dammit. Kurt took his tray and sat down at the table where Artie was eating alone. Artie had been alone a lot since he and Tina had broken up. Which was sad, but it also made Artie his last hope of finding an acceptable duet partner.

It was unexpectedly awkward. Kurt dithered for a bit, asking Artie a couple of leading questions to find out if he was free for the competition. And he had to wonder, why the weirdness? It was just a duet, it wasn't like Kurt was looking for somebody to escort him to prom. Or… maybe duets were really intimate? The dance of two voices, the sheer pair-off, twosome, coupleness off it all… Yes, fine, duets were romantic, and Kurt was the odd man out.

Perfect. That made everything so much better.

Anyway, turned out Artie was singing with Brittany, and pretty pleased about it too.

Yup. That was it, his last hope gone, the conclusion inescapable. Only one person left, only one slacker liar left in glee who wasn't even in school today, only one person who didn't have a partner for the duet competition.

Kurt felt like putting his head down on the table and _whine_.

"So who're you singing with?" Artie asked.

Kurt managed not put his head down on the table. He managed not to whine. He did let his chin fall down to his chest though, and he closed his eyes.

Behind his eyelids, it was really quite restful. The answer came to him, easy and with great simplicity. No. Just no. He wasn't singing with Puck. Puck The Thief. He'd rather bow out of the whole competition. He'd rather do the duet all alone. Yes, good, fine, that was the ticket. Kurt was the director, the king, and the queen. He could do everything alone. He'd blow them all out of the water with his spectacular one-person duet.

By now Kurt had had time to stew, to think about it, to compare and reminiscence, and guess what? It _was_ personal. What Puck had done was an act of thievery directed at Kurt, specifically. It was part of a pattern, and it showed exactly how much respect Puck had for him. Which was nothing. And Kurt owed him nothing in return. Kurt was over trying to be understanding. He had no patience for Puck's excuses. He had not patience for Puck, period.

And he would not participate in a farce where they sang together and pretended to be friends.

"So, um," he heard Artie's voice say. "I'm sorry I asked?"

"No, it's fine." Kurt opened his eyes. He lightly traced his fingers over his hair, and automatic gesture, checking for untidiness.

"But who...? Oh."

That's right, Artie didn't even know the story about the missing TV, and he still saw the _oh_.

"I don't suppose you might consider a trade?" Kurt asked, though it was more a complaint than an actual question.

"Me and Puck? You be maad," Artie said in that light, affected way he sometimes spoke. His pale eyes were wide behind his glasses though, as if from real disquiet at the thought of singing with Puck.

So yeah, apparently Artie was one of those unfortunates who did well remember Puck's bullying days. Kurt hadn't been sure, it wasn't like he'd spent any time with Artie before they'd both joined glee, and even that didn't say much. Out of all the members in glee, Artie was the one Kurt interacted with least of all. It was the gay thing, or so Kurt had always assumed. He'd taken Artie for one of those numerous people who was deeply unsettled by Kurt's presence, but still evolved enough not to blame Kurt for their own freaking problems, and as a result they ended up pretty much pretending he wasn't there.

To be fair, Artie had to get that one as well. Since, hello. Wheelchair. His legs didn't work. Like, at all. Who wanted to contemplate that one too long? Um… yeah. It was one of those things. If you'd start, you'd never stop. You could drive yourself mad, sinking into that hole. It was easier not to think about it at all. Kurt could actually _feel_ his thought taking a jump and a skip to avoid the subject.

So. In conclusion. For _whatever reason_ , Artie had been mostly ignoring Kurt, and Kurt _might_ have been ignoring him right back. Maybe. It wasn't a big deal or anything, they just didn't have all that much in common. Not the same taste in music, for one thing. Add to that Artie's complete and total disregard of fashion, his passion for computer games, his occasional (and cringe worthy) attempts to make passes at the girls in glee. And oh yeah, wasn't Artie highly involved in the jazz band, the mathletes and the A.V. club? Come to think about it, Artie could often be found hiding in the library, presumably doing research for all those advanced classes he was taking.

See? It was no wonder they didn't spend a lot of time together. Artie was incredibly busy being a nerd.

No offense meant to nerds all over the world.

"Actually," Kurt said hesitantly, speaking against his better judgment. "I was thinking we could make it so Britt and Puck could be together, and you and me…" He trailed off.

He could see from the pained look on Artie's face that he didn't like the sound of that idea either.

"You know what," Kurt said. "It's fine, don't worry about it. Puck hasn't pushed me into the lockers for a year, at least. I'm sure we could try to be civil for one song."

Might as well pretend last night had never happened.

Artie's face cleared. "Dude," he said. "I _wish_ it was just the lockers. I still get tense every time Puck walks up behind the chair. I keep thinking that _this_ is the time he'll suddenly remember one of his favorite games: Pushing the cripple down the stairs. Hilarious."

Kurt swallowed. He could imagine that all too well. Could imagine being stuck to a wheelchair, how tempting it would be for the Neanderthals, two handles in the back for them to grab. He'd be helpless and at their mercy, never able to run or hide. Trapped.

"I would have thought you'd get a bit of a pass," Kurt said. "Because of the…"

He made a gesture, indicating both Artie and chair he was sitting in. It felt impolite, but then Artie had been the one to bring it up first, so it was probably fine.

Artie just shrugged. Well yeah. What else was he supposed to do, burst into tears? It was the way it was.

"It's…" Artie sat silent for a short time, tapping his fork against the side of the plate before he stilled and seemed to relax. "I do get a bit of a pass," he said. "Not from slushies, mind, but you have no idea the number of times I've heard the words, 'You're lucky you're in that chair, or else…'" Artie made a small huff of derision. "It's stuff like that that makes you worry about the state of the human gene pool."

Kurt gave a sardonic smile. He'd been thinking that exact thing. It was remarkable how much he and Artie might end up having in common.

"And then there's Puck, equal opportunity asshole," he supplied. "Did he really… down the stairs?" That was the part that was hard to imagine, even from Puck. "You could have _died._ "

"Nah." Artie made a face. "He never let go of the chair. I learned to always wear the belt, though. Talk about your bumpy ride. The hardest part was getting back inside in time for classes."

Now that was a little easier to imagine. Still dreadful, but not really surprising. In fact, it was such a typical old-Puck thing to do. The jury was still out on how different the new Puck was from the old one.

"Bet you he was laughing all the while," Kurt said.

"You know it." Artie made an ironic toast with his glass of water.

"And he never apologized," Kurt concluded, his voice resigned.

"Apologized? Puck?"

Artie looked like he was trying to picture it, and then he burst out laughing. Kurt agreed, the idea was incongruous. He laughed as well, and he almost, almost gave in and told Artie about last night. The only thing stopping him was the thought of the story getting out all over the school _before_ Kurt had had a chance to confront Puck about it. That was the important part. As the injured party, Puck was his, Kurt had first dibs. He was the one who deserved to see Puck squirm.

He and Artie ate in silence. It was still kind of weird. Kurt wasn't sure how to act, and it didn't help that it seemed like Artie had something he wanted to say, but he kept changing his mind, glancing up and glancing down to take another bite of his school kitchen lasagna. Weird. If Artie had something to say, why didn't he just say it? Kurt wasn't that intimidating, was he?

When they were almost finished, Artie put his fork down and looked at Kurt, apparently making up his mind. He did a curious gesture, something that might have started out as a supportive hand on Kurt's shoulder, but it stopped before Artie's hand came even close to entering Kurt's personal space.

"So, um," Artie said. "I just wanted to say that I've got your back. Mate."

Mate? How… British.

"You do?" Kurt asked, confused.

"Yeah," Artie leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. "I'd appreciate if you didn't pass this information along, but… I'm optical illusion 52."

"I have no idea what that means," Kurt said.

It sometimes galled him, having to admit ignorance, particularly if he was in the classroom and the teacher had given him time to express himself. This time though, he felt no compunction. Artie was speaking nonsense.

"On the blog?" Artie said, looking puzzled. At Kurt's continued look of incomprehension, he clarified, "Jacob's blog. You do know about... that. Or… don't you?"

Right. _That._ Artie seemed worried at the prospect of having to explain it, as well he might.

"I've seen it," Kurt said, quickly taking Artie out of his misery. "I'm doing my best to scrub the memory out of my brain."

"He's a disgrace to the business of journalism," Artie said with a sage nod. "He has no sense of when to stop. The stuff he wrote about your dad, not to mention the whole mess with… aaand you probably don't want to talk about that, sorry."

Kurt wasn't sure what expression his own face was showing, to make Artie back away that quickly.

"I have to ignore it, don't I?" Kurt said. "If I try to respond I'll only make it worse."

At least, that's what he'd been saying to Rachel. Ignore it, it was nothing, _they_ were nothing. It was an old solution, tested and true. He'd spent about zero seconds thinking about it. It had seemed the easiest, the obvious, way to go. Now he suddenly wasn't so sure.

"Well," Artie said, adjusting his glasses. "When it comes to Jacob, you might be right. He loves to piss people off. I'm kind of surprised, though. You're just going to ignore it? _You?_ "

Huh. Artie made it sound like Kurt spent all his time arguing or something.

"I always ignore stuff like that," Kurt said, stiffly. "The only reason I've even seen the wretched thing is because Rachel stuck it underneath my nose. I'd be lucky never to hear the name 'Ben Isreal' and the word 'blog' in the same sentence ever again."

Artie nodded, a slow, thoughtful nod. "It's up to you, of course," he said. "Just don't think you're alone. Opticalillusion52 is on this thing, and so are several of the guys in the A.V. club."

"You… you _are_?"

Kurt folded his hands in his lap, blinking, astonished. Ambushed by kindness.

Just those words, _don't think you're alone._

They landed on the surface of his mind like a feather, and floated there, not ready to sink in.

 _Don't think you're alone._

He was pretty sure no one had ever said those exact words to him before. Not in that order.

"Thank you," Kurt said. His voice was unsteady, and he _may_ have been staring at Artie with wet eyes and the sappiest smile as yet seen in all of creation.

Artie looked down. He picked up his fork and speared a piece of tomato. Put it in his mouth.

"Don't mention it," he said, not looking at Kurt. "You keep on doing your thing."

"Always," Kurt said.

It did make him feel uneasy, the thought of Artie and his associates from the A.V. club even _seeing_ Ben Israel's ramblings, let alone trying to pick them apart. On the other hand, there was nothing Kurt could do to stop them, they could do whatever they wanted. And apparently, what they wanted was to help Kurt. They had his back (mate), and he wasn't alone.

Kurt smiled down at his empty plate. Opticalillusion52 was probably a virtual badass, and _Jacob_ wouldn't know what hit him.

* * *

It was still lunchtime, and Kurt was making his way through a bustling hallway. That's when the culprit finally turned up. Puck, standing in the middle of the hall with his arms crossed. There was a backpack slung over his shoulder, and he looked for all the world like he'd only just arrived. Puck hadn't noticed Kurt yet, and Kurt had a moment to watch Puck and think, _what am I doing?_

He'd been remembering how Puck used to be, and yet Kurt had never properly considered that confronting him about the TV might be… well, _hard._ Puck was wearing a green camouflage t-shirt underneath the open letterman jacket, the green fabric stretched over his chest, muscles bulging after hours and hours in the gym. His face was hard and forbidding, and other students were taking detours around him. Nothing new there. What had Kurt supposed would happen when Puck finally showed up?

Anger and confusion and frustration, it all seemed to come together in _avoidance,_ and Kurt might have turned around right then, except that's when Puck saw him.

A curious look passed over Puck's face – could it be guilt? He lost the hostile stance and he seemed… attentive, focusing on Kurt. It was almost a meek look, a clear acknowledgement that Puck knew he'd done something wrong, and that he wasn't going to deny it.

Alright. _Alright._ Let's do this thing.

Kurt marched up to Puck. He raised his chin and gave Puck his coldest, must unforgiving stare.

"Hey, Hummel," Puck muttered, not meeting his eyes.

"You're a thief."

"I know. Sorry about that. I'll pay you back."

Puck held up his hands in a this-is-me-taking-responsibility-for-my-crimes kind of way.

"What, are you insane?" A fresh wave of anger washed over Kurt. He wasn't used to feeling like this, _warm_ with anger, but then what Puck had done was unprecedented, and it deserved his deepest ire. "First you _steal_ from me, and now what? You can't pay me back for being a _thief_!"

"Keep your voice down," Puck hissed.

"Why should I? I should go to the police. In fact, I _will_ go to the police. Because you're a _thief_."

It beared repeating.

"You have no proof," Puck said.

Pathetic.

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. Puck was pathetic.

"So?" Kurt raised a brow. "I'm sure they'll be interested to hear what I have to say anyway."

Spoken with the calm placidity of conviction, and Kurt could tell from the first signs of actual worry on Puck's face that yeah, that one had gotten through.

What, had he thought he could just say "sorry" and it would go away?

Puck glanced around, looking nervous. As far as Kurt could tell, no one seemed to be listening. Then Kurt's sleeve was grabbed, and he was pulled around a corner and down an adjoining hallway until he and Puck were standing outside the door to the chemistry lab. It was calmer here, nearly silent, and they could talk relatively undisturbed. Kurt could feel some of his anger draining away. He tugged at his sleeve though, brushing away wrinkles. There'd been no need to _drag_ him.

Puck leaned closer. "Please don't go to the police," he said. "I can explain."

Uh-huh. Kurt just looked at him, waiting for the explanation. His silence seemed to unnerve Puck, who opened his mouth and closed it, at a loss for words. Then Puck seemed to remember that he was supposed to be _the_ badass at this school. He straightened his back and shrugged.

"I had to do it," he said. "I needed the money, real quick. I owed some guys."

"What?" Kurt scoffed, half disbelieving, half alarmed. Puck _owed_ some _guys_? "Like... the mafia?"

"The mafia?" Puck gave a bark of amusement. "This is Lima. Seen any goodfellas around lately?"

"How should I know? You're the one who's familiar with the criminal elements of this city. Apparently." Unless that's just what Puck wanted him to believe. "Why did you even owe some guys money in the first place?"

"None of your business," Puck growled, warning Kurt away from the subject.

Like Kurt actually cared. "You know what, it really isn't."

No, it didn't matter what kind of shenanigans Puck might or might not be up to. There was no excuse for what he had done. To Puck's credit, he seemed to have caught on to the fact that Kurt was in no mood to joke around. He sighed and pulled his fingers through his mohawk, looking Kurt straight in the eyes.

"I was gonna ask you for a loan," Puck said, his voice low. It sounded like honest regret. "I've seen your car and the way you dress. You're loaded."

"Or, you know, spoiled. Spoiled is a possibility."

Duh. What world was Puck living in, that he didn't see that distinction? Not that Kurt didn't have access to some limited funds, but still.

"I was going to ask!" Puck insisted. "But you were in such a crappy mood, and then I saw the TV and I thought, 'Hey, emergency backup plan.' Just in case the loan thing didn't go through. I figured a drink would get you in a better mood, but then... you know the rest."

"Splendid," Kurt said, dry and calm. "All this because you were scared to ask for a loan. Bravo. Well done."

Though he had to admit, Puck's explanation wasn't as bad as it could have been.

"Like you would have agreed to a loan," Puck said, sounding sullen.

Kurt thought about it. Would he have loaned Puck a bunch of money? Eh. He probably wouldn't have. Or maybe he would, if Puck had asked for it earnestly enough. Now they would never know. The trust was broken, and Puck was a thief. It was all so stupid and unnecessary.

"Alright, so I took the TV." Puck made wide gestures with his arms, like _how big a deal is it really?_ "I'm not proud of it, but I took it. It was that or steal an ATM."

"Yes, those were clearly the only two options!"

If Puck wanted him blazing mad again, Kurt could oblige.

"I'll pay you back," Puck repeated, placating. "Just give me some time-"

"Please," Kurt said. "Like I need to be yet another of your hare brained excuses carrying you towards a glorious life of petty crimes and debauchery, inevitably leading to an even grander life as a _prison inmate_."

"What do you want from me!?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Thief."

"Asshole."

"Criminal."

"Hummel. I'm sorry. For real. I feel awful. I'll do anything to make it up to you." Puck's face was scrunched up in an exaggerated display of remorse.

Kurt laughed, and then froze, mid laugh.

Hang on, take a moment, hold your horses, hold each and every one of them. Think about it. Really think. There _was_ something. Kurt had a big problem, and here was Puck offering _anything_. Anything to make up for the crime, anything to assuage the blame. How wasteful it would be to dismiss such an offer out of hand.

Kurt stared at the other boy, feeling, yes. Hope.

"Hummel, say something. Stop being creepy." Puck looked nervous.

"I could just tell my dad I broke it," Kurt said. He was smiling, and it's possible he'd never said anything with this much relish, ever. "It could have been an accident, no harm no foul. No one needs to know."

Puck stared at him like he thought Kurt was a small, albeit wildly dangerous, animal.

"He'll be maaad," Kurt crooned. "I bet that's all he'll have the strength for, once he gets back from the hospital after his severe heart attack. To sit on the couch and watch sport on his brand new TV."

"Are you kidding me right now!"

"Or I could just go to the police," Kurt concluded. He shot Puck a direct, humorless stare.

"Alright." Puck held up his hands in surrender. "What do you want from me? I'll do it. I'll be your bitch."

"Yeah, you will." Kurt laughed, quick and harsh.

"You're enjoying this too much."

"What do you think? One year, Puck. One year of tossing me into dumpsters, of pushing me around, of _humiliating_ me. One year of treating me like garbage."

Kurt hadn't meant to bring that up, he really hadn't. But then again, why shouldn't he? Puck had been one of his worst tormentors. A recent history of uneasy truce and singing together in the same choir didn't make that go away. And neither did it go away for guys like Artie and everyone else Puck had classified as "dweebs" or "nerds," and thus fair targets in his mindless I'm-bigger-and-stronger-than-you games.

"Never took you for one to hold a grudge," Puck said, frowning.

"Oh, I was all set to forgive and forget," Kurt said. "Believe it or not, I even started to feel safe with you, just a little bit. And then you came into my house, lied to me, drugged me, and stole my stuff."

Puck made a face and rubbed at the back of his head. "It does sound bad when you put it like that."

Kurt looked at Puck through narrowed eyes, trying to convey precisely how unimpressed he was by that statement. Puck looked unsettled. Good.

"There is no other way to put it," Kurt said, his voice mild.

"What do you want from me!?" Puck almost shouted.

Yes. Good. Excellent. Kurt smiled. Back to the important part.

"In short," he said. "David Karofsky."

And it filled Kurt with a tingling sense of power and dread, saying that name. Telling somebody else.

Hear that? David. Karofsky. That's your name. You can't stop me. Hah ha ha ha ha.

"You want me to..." Puck looked around, and yes, they were pretty much alone right now. Puck waited until a couple of laughing sophomores had made their way out of the corridor before he leaned closer to Kurt and whispered, "You want me to kill him?"

Kurt stared.

"Because I won't," Puck said. "Bust a few skulls, sure. But that's as far as it goes."

"I should most assuredly hope so," Kurt said, still staring.

He sounded incredibly prim and proper, but how was he supposed to respond? _No_ , Kurt didn't want Karofsky _dead_. Of course not. That was taking things about two thousand steps too far. That's not to say that Kurt hadn't fantasized about it, because he had, he'd pictured cars and wrecking balls and laughing hyenas, but that was just a natural reaction to, well, it was just a natural reaction. And no, it wasn't good or satisfying to imagine such things. Violent thoughts made Kurt feel queasy, they didn't belong in his head, and as soon as Karofsky stopped giving him reasons to hate him, the fantasies would stop, Kurt was sure of it.

"Then what do you want me to do?" Puck asked. He sounded puzzled, and maybe relieved.

"Just... I want to make it stop. I don't know how exactly. You have to give me some time to think about it."

Could he use Puck as his personal bodyguard? Maybe. Sometimes. But that wasn't an actual solution, and Puck was bound to get tired of it in a very short amount of time.

"He's really going after you, isn't he?" Puck's face was soft with something that might be concern.

Please no sympathy, not from Puck of all people.

"It keeps getting worse," Kurt said. He was going for quick and easy, just stating the facts, but he had to stop to take a calming breath. His throat felt tight. "The things he says, it's... the way he looks at me, like he hates me. It's personal, he really does hate me. I'm scared all the time. I'm not making this up!"

"I didn't think you were," Puck said. "Take it easy."

"Sorry," Kurt said. "Sorry." He realized he was rubbing at his chest, at the ghost of a hard line where the locker door had been. He was blinking and blinking to avoid tears.

"Maybe I _should_ kill him after all." Puck gave the suggestion with a smile, clearly making it into a joke.

Kurt laughed, glad to move on from the difficult part.

"If that's what you keep coming up with, you can leave the brainstorming to me. No, wait!" he said, instantly changing his mind. He pointed at Puck. "I take that back. You can _think_ about it all you want, I could use that devious, delinquent brain of yours. But do _not_ confront him, not yet anyway. I call the shots. Come to me with any and all ideas you might have."

"You got it. Boss."

Puck made a backwards salute, grinning all the while. He seemed to be totally onboard with this new development. Getting saluted was amazingly satisfying, and Kurt found himself grinning right back. He felt excellent all of a sudden.

"That's good and settled then," Puck gave a decisive nod. He took a few backward steps away from Kurt as if he was leaving, but then he stopped and walked back. Or slunk back. He had a pained, reluctant look on his face.

"Yes?" Kurt asked, amused.

"Hey, yeah," Puck said. "This might sound... uh, really fucking strange coming from me. But you did tell me to come to you with any and all ideas I might have. So here's a thought." Pause. Puck looked to the side and made a small sound of distaste. Then he straightened his shoulders and looked directly at Kurt. "Why don't you take it to Figgins or Schue? Or any teacher, really. That's part of their jobs, you know. Protecting people like you from people like... like him."

From people like him and _you_ , Puck. That's what you were going to say? This must be so strange for you, _Puck_. But thank you for the oh-so-creative, I've-never-heard-it-before suggestion.

"It won't do any good," Kurt explained. "Karofsky hasn't actually done anything yet. Nothing they would care about anyway."

What, did Puck think Kurt had never considered it before? Did he think Kurt had never _tried_ it before?

"Fair enough."

Puck didn't really sound like he agreed, but he backed off all the same. Probably because Kurt was starting to show signs of getting all emotional again. But that was no good, Kurt had to stay rational and smart and on top of this.

"I know it's part of their job, alright?" he said. He took a deep breath. "And of course it's a recourse to take into account. Let's call that plan B. No." He smiled then, a small, wicked smile. "We'll call that the 'emergency backup plan'."

"Dude!" He sounded betrayed, like Kurt had just broken a promise.

Well yeah, that was the implied deal, wasn't it? One free TV for Puck's help with Karofsky.

"Fine," Kurt said. "I won't mention it again. Probably. Thief."

"Fairy boy."

Of course, yes. Tit for tat, equilibrium restored. Puck looked so smug too.

"Right." Kurt paused. "And on that note, you'll be singing your duet with me."

Kurt regretted it as soon as it was out of his mouth. He should _not_ have said that.

Puck didn't seem bothered though, he just slapped his own forehead.

"Shit. The competition thing."

"Everybody else is paired up already," Kurt said. "Unless you have some other solution, we're stuck with each other."

"What about your second half?"

"Mercedes is singing with Santana." Not being bitter, Kurt managed to sound pleasant about that.

"No way. Actually, that's hot."

"I don't need this."

"No, that's all, I'm done. That's hot, end of comment." Puck grinned, looking off into the distance. Presumably contemplating the hotness of lesbian sex.

"Fine," Kurt said. "I'll do it on my own."

Had planned on it, in fact.

"No, I'll sing with you."

"You will?"

That was a surprise.

"Yeah, why not?"

It sounded like a genuine question. Like, why not?

Huh. Maybe duets weren't this big, romantic thing, after all.

"Alright," Kurt said, slow and hesitant. "I guess we could _try_." He didn't bother to hide his skepticism at the idea.

Puck didn't seem like he was listening. He was looking at Kurt with a small smirk on his face.

"Remember that I've seen you drunk."

"What?" Kurt blinked, and did a quick shake of his head. "Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?"

"No, just saying. I've seen you drunk. You were hilarious. Made it all worthwhile."

"Your mind is an enigma. Not a compliment."

"Sounded like a compliment."

"It wasn't."

"I think it was."

"I think it wasn't. No, stop. Go away, stop talking to me, I've got things to do." Kurt waved his hand in the air, a queen dismissing her subject.

"You're alright, Hummel."

Puck gave him a smile, an easy, friendly smile, before he turned around and walked away.

Kurt stood there, alone in the empty hallway, trying to puzzle what had just happened.

You're alright, Hummel.

Alright?

Yes, he guessed he was. It wasn't hard to figure out why. He'd told somebody. It wasn't just him and Karofsky anymore. He felt… lighter. Brighter. Like he'd stepped up on a ladder and a whole new vista had opened up underneath his feet.

And all he'd had to do was let a thief get away with burglary.

Pfh.

Kurt had never liked the new TV anyway. The screen was too large and the light too cold. And, come to think about it, the old TV was still in the house. His dad had been talking about taking it to the garage, but hadn't gotten around to it yet. The old TV wasn't as large, and the screen was a lot warmer. It would fill the empty space nicely.

If his dad knew about it, he would approve of the trade, Kurt was reasonably sure.

* * *

Later, Kurt found Brittany sitting alone on his old wooden bench by the south wall. Brittany's expressive body was wilted in sad contemplation. A melancholy, artistic pose.

Kurt sat down next to her.

"What's wrong?" His voice was soft with concern.

Britt didn't look up, and Kurt moved to sit close by her side, their arms almost touching. He waited in silence, watching the students walk by, talking, joking, everybody busy with their own lives. The sun was warm. It was still summer, though the autumn would soon be there.

"I don't understand," Britt finally said. "Santana said she's my best friend, but why won't she sing it for everybody?"

Ah, the pain of rejection.

"I don't know," Kurt said. "I don't know what's going on in Santana's head. Maybe she just really wanted to sing with Mercedes."

"Okay." Britt lifted her head, which was a relief because her wilting pose had been frankly distressing. She looked at Kurt. "Are you and Mercedes mad at each other?"

"We have a bit of a disagreement," Kurt said, very precisely.

He'd thought they were over it, new boyfriend and all. But then it turned out she was singing with Santana, and she hadn't even bothered to let him know.

Not. Bitter.

"You called God a flying dwarf in a teapot," Britt said. "With lightening boobs."

"Yes, kind of." Kurt sighed. "Well remembered. Except, do you also remember what happened right before that? Mercedes asked me to prove that God didn't exist. The teapot thing is a famous analogue called Russell's... um."

Brittany had moved her face right in front of Kurt's. Her eyes were very close and very not blinking.

"Santana says I shouldn't listen to you."

She was still maintaining the extreme eye contact. That was just scary, people weren't supposed to do this to each other. Ever.

"Britt." Kurt leaned back on the bench. "Why are you looking at me like... Santana said _what_?"

"Santana said I shouldn't take advice from the greatest virgin around. She said that of course his advice would be to just say no."

"No," Kurt said. "No. That's not what my advice was about. No."

Kurt had been talking with Britt about sex, that much was true. But it had been much more nuanced than "just say no". It had been good advice too, and Kurt hated for it to get lost in translation. And he was _not_ the greatest virgin around.

"It's not just Santana," Britt said. "Someone else also thinks you give bad advice."

She broke the eye contact, which made it much easier for Kurt to think.

"Britt." Kurt frowned, full of misgivings. "If someone is pressuring you into doing something you don't want to do..."

And no, he did _not_ want to talk with Britt about sex again, but he'd do it if he had to.

"Quinn said I shouldn't be listening to you, because you have bad experiences and don't understand what you're talking about."

The hell? Kurt made a face, conveying his complete bafflement.

"I'm sorry that people are mean to you," Britt said. "Quinn says we should be, um… _supportive_ so you'll know that not everyone who believes in God thinks you're a bad person. She meant because you're gay. I never thought being gay makes you bad."

"I always knew you didn't," Kurt said, absently.

Quinn was a slightly different story, and though Kurt's been reasonably sure about her as well, it was still good to hear outright. Although Quinn's point about believers in general was pretty damn moot. Like Kurt could possibly have failed to notice that not _all_ believers thought being gay "made you bad".

Consider exhibit one: Mercedes Jones. In fact, Mercedes was so good about Kurt being gay that she sometimes forgot that there still existed people who weren't – it was _that_ foreign to her. Which, come to think about it, totally recommended her entire church as well. A church that Kurt had visited last Sunday, and no one had asked him to leave, or even frowned balefully in his direction. Good on them. Their pastor must skip those parts of the bible or something.

(And it wasn't like Kurt had left them wondering. He'd been wearing a hat with feathers. Black feathers, as it happened, to go with his somber vest and bow tie. It was fitting. The hat had used to belong to his mother.)

"Quinn says you don't believe in God because of bad people."

Kurt sighed, glancing up at the cloudless sky. Did he really want to linger on this? It seemed like he did.

"Quinn's wrong about that," he said, speaking slow and clear. "I _don't_ not believe in God because of bad people. I _do_ not believe in God because I think he's made up. There's a difference."

He turned to Britt, who had a bewildered look on her face. Well, yes. By trying to be clear, he'd only made it confusing.

"It's like this." Kurt said, trying to come up with an easy illustration. "Okay. Imagine that a lot of people thought Santa was real. And suppose there existed this thing called _The Santa List_ , which was a long list of all the things that Santa thought were naughty and all the things he thought were nice. And on that list it said that it was naughty for girls to dance. Girls were never, ever allowed to dance, according to Santa. Not even if they were alone in their room and listening to really good music."

"Santa would never say that," Britt said. Her eyes were troubled.

"Of course not, but pretend there was this list. It was actually written by a guy named Joe, but no one knew about that, okay? Now pretend that Quinn said..." Kurt paused for his brain to catch up. "Quinn said that the people who told you that Santa had forbidden you to dance were _mean_ , and if you talked to other people who also believed in Santa but did not believe in the part of the list where it said it was naughty for girls to dance, _then_ you would start believing in Santa too, and get down on your knees and worship him as your lord and savior."

That... had started out a lot better than it had ended. And Brittany still wasn't showing any telltale signs of comprehension.

"Can you sort of see what I'm trying to say?" Kurt probed.

She shook her head.

"Santa's nice," she said. "He loves music."

"I know. I only used Santa as an example because everyone can agree that he doesn't exist."

Silence. And then, slowly, her face started to crumble.

Kurt stared at her, at her stricken eyes and trembling bottom lip.

No. Way.

It wasn't possible- How could-? What kind of parents-?

No. No way, there was no way. She was making a joke, that had to be it.

"Brittany. Hey, Britt. Hey. Stop it."

Yes, please stop it. It hurts to look at you.

"Santa doesn't exist?"

"No," Kurt said. "Sorry." He still wasn't sure if she was for real.

"Really, really?" She sounded like a child, exactly like a child. And yes, he was convinced. She was being completely honest.

"It's like a game." He spoke gently. "Some people dress up like Santa around Christmas, and everyone pretends to believe. For fun. It's supposed to be fun. I guess someone forgot to tell you. Don't feel bad, okay?"

"I have to go," she said, her voice small.

She stood up. She wasn't looking at him. Were those tears on her cheeks? Was she actually crying right now? Please, no.

Kurt stood up as well. He touched her bare arm, but she pulled away, her face resolutely turned in the other direction.

"Britt? Please sit down. I'm sorry-"

"I have to go," she said. "Bye."

Her long legs carried her away, and she was almost running down the lawn and back towards the main school building. Kurt stood alone by the bench, and his throat was tight from sheer sympathetic misery. He hated that he'd made her unhappy.

Still, what choice did he have? He had to tell her. There was no way he could have lied. Of course not. Reinforcing her belief in Santa (!) would have been an unconscionable thing to do. No, he'd done the right thing, he was sure of it.

Except… if he'd done the right thing, why did he feel so very, very guilty?


	7. Coffee

**Chapter 7**

Kurt walked dejectedly up the driveway towards his empty house. Normally, he'd be planning for dinner by now. Not this time. What's the use of planning when there'd only be one plate at the dinner table?

One plate. It still felt like a not-so-funny practical joke.

His phone rang. He took it out of his bag and smiled when he saw it was Mercedes. He pressed the answer button and put the phone to his ear.

"Hello, pretty lady."

"Hello, pretty boy."

Yes, that's how that went.

"So, hey," Mercedes said. "What are you doing after dinner?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

Well, he really ought to get started on the war/poetry assignment for English class. But apart from that, nothing. And he wasn't going to blow Mercedes off for homework.

"Then come to the coffee shop down by the community collage," she said. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Kurt smiled. "That someone being your soon-to-be boyfriend?"

What had she said his name was again? Jeremy? Jeremiah? Jehovah? No, not that last one.

"Mhm." She sounded pleased.

"I'll be there! No, wait. This isn't a date, is it? Because if it is…"

Kurt wasn't about to crash a _date._

"No, it's not a date," Mercedes said. "At least… no, not a date."

She didn't sound too sure about that.

"It might be a date?" Kurt suggested.

"It's not." She was resolute now. "He called me like a minute ago, totally casual, and asked if I wanted to meet up. I think he meets people at that place all the time – just to talk and hang out, you know. He wouldn't do that for a first date! And he thought it was a great idea for you to come too."

"He did?"

"Don't sound so surprised. He's asked about you. He was really affected by what's happened with your dad."

"You talked to him about that?"

Kurt's fingers tightened around the phone. It really didn't sit well with him, the thought of her talking about it with somebody else. Since… you know. She should have talked about it with _him_. With Kurt. _He_ was the one it was happening to, _he_ was the one who was really affected. She should have… hugged him. They should have spent last week hugging and talking.

Yeah. He so needed to let that one go.

"I didn't need to tell him about it," she said, sounding defensive. "He was _there_. We dedicated the whole service to your dad, remember?"

"He goes to your church?" Of course he did.

"Didn't I already say that? Our parents are good friends from church. I've actually babysat his younger brothers plenty of times. They're a big family. Sometimes I miss that. The house has been too calm since my brother left for collage."

"Mhm."

Kurt tried to imagine having lots of siblings, and he came up short. It sounded… noisy. Kurt was part of a family of two. It was ingrained.

"Anyway," Mercedes said. "I really want the two of you to meet. Say you'll come?"

"Of course I'll be there."

"Great!" She sounded cheerful. "Meet you at the shop in an hour?"

"Will do."

She made a kissing noise into the phone before hanging up.

Her good mood was infectious, and Kurt took a moment just standing there holding his phone in his hands, feeling grateful that their friendship seemed to have survived its recent crisis. Last week had been rough, but he'd gotten her back. From now on he would see to it that it stayed that way. Mercedes was too precious a prize to lose.

* * *

One hour later, Kurt was being formally introduced to Mercedes' (possible) future boyfriend.

"Kurt Hummel," Mercedes said. "Meet Joshua Nelson."

She managed not to break away from the adult-style solemnity of the introduction, though he could tell from her smile that it was a near thing.

Joshua had been waiting for them at a secluded table inside the otherwise busy coffee shop. He got to his feet to shake Kurt's hand. Mercedes sat down, and Kurt automatically took the chair next to her, not taking his eyes off the other boy.

The description Mercedes have given this morning had been spot on. Joshua was gorgeous. He had a face that made Kurt think about ancient Egypt, about those young-looking golden burial masks for Egyptian kings. That uncanny kind of good looks. Also, and this would have been hard to say out loud without risking some serious stepping in it, but this guy had the darkest skin Kurt had ever seen in real life. In the dim light it seemed nearly velvet black, smooth and polished and without any blemishes.

Holy crap.

Holy crap!

Kurt might just start crying, the guy was so unbelievably good looking.

Joshua smiled at Kurt across the table. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"You too."

Don't stare at Mercedes' future boyfriend, don't stare at Mercedes' future boyfriend.

"Mercedes tells me your dad's doing better."

"Yes, much, thank you. Thank you, he is."

Stop saying thank you.

Mercedes was giving him a twinkling, knowing smile, as if she was saying, _Yes, I know. I get it. I don't blame you for getting your brain all tied up in knots_.

"I heard Mercedes gave you a bible to read to him. That was thoughtful of her."

All of a sudden, it didn't seem to matter anymore that Mercedes' future boyfriend was unbelievably gorgeous. He was still just some guy who didn't know what he was talking about.

"Please don't," Mercedes said, shaking her head. She made little cease-and-desist gestures with her hands. "Me and Kurt have agreed that we shouldn't talk about that."

They had? When? He was aware of no such agreement. Not that he was going to complain.

Joshua glanced at Kurt, and then back at Mercedes. He looked taken aback.

"Really? Why?"

Mercedes bit her lip.

"Kurt's made it pretty clear he doesn't want to hear me talk about what I believe. Well, if he doesn't want to hear it, he doesn't want to hear it. I get the message. I'm not going to force my opinions on him anymore."

He had _not_ expected her to say that. She sounded… okay, pissed off. But also like she meant it.

"How are you forcing your opinions if you're just expressing what you believe in? Where does the force come in?" Joshua asked, sounding calm and reasonable.

"Excuse me," Kurt said, his voice sharp. "This is between me and Mercedes."

"No, you're right," Joshua conceded. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interfere in your relationship. It's just... I can't imagine having to censor myself like that."

Way to make Kurt sound like the bad guy.

"Excuse me," Kurt repeated. "Mercedes isn't the only one being censored in this scenario."

"Sounds like she is," Joshua said gently.

So alright, he was gorgeous, but also annoying.

"Which one of us was it who took the other one to church?" Kurt pointed out. "Which one of us was it who gave the other one a bible? It wouldn't be censorship to, oh I don't know. Maybe not do that anymore."

"Mercedes was sharing something very important to her."

"Which she already knew I didn't want!"

"I can speak for myself."

Mercedes looked sternly at Joshua, and Joshua lowered his eyes. Of course. Kurt always did know she could stand up for herself. And then Mercedes turned to Kurt. She was silent, just looking at him. A sad, steady gaze.

"Joshua's right," she said. "I don't want to stop talking about my faith. But, Kurt... you get so angry."

"I don't want to be angry. It's just..."

"What?"

"Nothing. I don't know. I thought we agreed not to talk about it."

Kurt stared down at the table, sullen and silent. He felt trapped.

"Oh, we're talking about it." Mercedes said. "I certainly don't want you to _censor_ yourself. Spit it out."

She said it with her own special brand of mock severity, using humor to take the edge off her words. She was building bridges even as she was asking him to tear them down.

"Whoa," Joshua held up his hands, palms out. "I think it's good that you're talking about it, but maybe you should agree to take it easy."

"What?" Mercedes said. "This is how I talk."

"That's true." Kurt smiled at her. "It's part of what makes her so awesome."

Mercedes raised her eyebrow at Joshua as if to say, _Got a problem with that?_ Kurt did the same, imitating her expression, the tight smile and the chilly eyebrow. The solidarity of united fronts, they had it _down_.

Joshua laughed. "I can tell you've been friends for a long time."

"You have no idea," Mercedes said imperiously, still in character.

But, yeah. Their fashion trips, their movie nights, their four minutes, their outings in his car. Singing along to every song on the radio, even if they didn't know the words. Their struggles with dancing.

Joshua steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. A dark sphinx, a cat with luminous eyes.

Kurt felt his mouth go dry.

What? It was an involuntary reaction.

"I'm sorry to bring us back to a sensitive topic," Joshua said. "But I hadn't realized that religion was such an... area of contention between you."

"We'll work it out," Kurt said, annoyed.

"But will you?" Joshua only sounded concerned. "It's pretty obvious that you have some serious unresolved issues that you haven't even begun to address. I mean to say... is that something you would agree on?"

Kurt and Mercedes looked at each other. They did the same wry, reluctant face. Unresolved issues, check.

"I have a suggestion," Joshua said. He pointed at himself. "How about you talk about it... but with my help. Trust me, I have some experience with this exact situation. I could be your mediator."

"What, you want to play at being our psychiatrist?" Kurt asked. "That doesn't sound like much fun for you."

Joshua shook his head, smiling. "If you knew me, you wouldn't be saying that. I want to be a counselor some day, and I plan on majoring in psychology with a minor in philosophy. Maybe the other way around. Having discussions like this is what I live for."

A counselor? Clearly no one had told Joshua about his stardom career as a fashion model.

Mercedes gave Kurt a questioning what-do-you-say? look. She seemed to be tentatively onboard with the (wildly hazardous) amateur counseling idea.

"I promise to stay neutral and professional at all times," Joshua said.

Well. That took care of _one_ of Kurt's objections.

"Maybe we shouldn't," he said, opting for caution. "We already know we won't agree. You believe in God, I don't. That's not an issue that's likely to change any time soon."

He should put that as plainly as possible.

"No," Mercedes said. "I want to talk about it."

Her mind seemed to be made up. Kurt got it. Maybe they did have unresolved issues, and maybe they did need to talk. But. But this felt too early. He felt like they needed some distance, some perspective from the whole thing.

In plain words, Kurt didn't trust himself yet.

His dad was still in the hospital.

"Say you'll do it," Mercedes said.

She was smiling her _pretty please_ smile, to be used when windshields were broken, churches visited, and amends needed to be made. Kurt had never known how to resist that look.

He spread his hands, palms up, a gesture of surrender.

"Great!" Joshua said. Way too keen. "Let's get something to drink first."

"Peppermint tea for me," Mercedes said.

"I need a very large very strong coffee," Kurt muttered.

It wasn't a coffee order. It was a comment on the current situation.

"Let me get them for you." Joshua got to his feet, glancing at Kurt. "You'll get them next time."

"...okay."

Mercedes' future boyfriend was planning on meeting him again?

"Go ahead," Mercedes whispered, once Joshua had left and they were alone. "Admit it."

"Admit what?"

"That I'm the winner at finding boyfriends."

"Cruel!" Kurt pouted.

Mercedes sniggered.

A familiar back and forth, putting them both at ease. Or a little bit at ease. Kurt picked up a paper napkin and started tearing in to shreds.

"What do you really think about him?" Mercedes asked, serious this time.

"He's, well..." Interfering, sincere, distractingly good looking.

"You don't like him?"

"Mercedes..."

"He's trying to help."

"I realize that."

"Good."

They both fell silent.

"It's not a date," she said, wryly.

"I guess not."

His voice neutral. Kurt wasn't about to mess with whatever was going on between Mercedes and Joshua. Or, you know... whatever _wasn't_ going on between Mercedes and Joshua. Kurt wasn't going to make a _peep_ to even hint at a suggestion that maybe, just maybe, there would never be a date at all. Of course there would be a date. Mercedes was great. She'd make it so.

Joshua was standing by the counter, his back turned towards them. He was wearing dark jeans and a well-fitting turtleneck sweater. He looked nice. Not conspicuously muscular (like Puck), but strong and healthy-looking. Kind of like Kurt imagined he himself would look in a year or two. Or three. In his more grown-up incarnation. Kurt caught himself feeling a… kinship with Joshua, with this childhood acquaintance of Mercedes. The boy from church, who apparently had a myriad of younger siblings. It was strange.

They watched while Joshua received three ceramic cups and put them on a small tray, his movements slow and careful. The cups were probably filled to the brim. By the time Joshua picked up the tray and started walking towards them, Kurt felt calmer. He could do this. He could talk it out.

For Mercedes.

Joshua sat down by the table and handed out the cups.

"Thank you," Kurt said.

It was a big coffee without milk, as expected. He blew on the coffee to cool it, then sipped. Ew. Alright, it wasn't that disgusting. It tasted okay without his usual splash of milk, not as bitter at he'd assumed. Mercedes smelled her tea. Joshua seemed to wait patiently for them to get ready.

"Why don't we let Mercedes start," Joshua said. His voice had turned calm and soothing, kind of like a real psychiatrist. Which was a good sign, it spoke of fairness and leadership. "Let's listen to what she thinks about the contentions between you, from her point of view. There will be no arguments and no interruptions. Then we do the same with Kurt. I want you both to get a say. Does that sound okay to you?"

They both nodded. It did sound okay. Nerve-racking, but okay.

Mercedes reached across the table and put her hand on top of Kurt's. Hey nice, hand holding. She spent some time thinking, her thumb playing with the skin over his knuckles. It always managed to surprise him how small her hands were compared to his.

"Kurt," she said, her voice somber. "Do you remember when you first told me you were gay?"

He nodded, remembering that leap into vulnerability. Then he cast a guarded glance at Joshua, who just raised his eyebrows in a half-shrug. Which, fair enough, everyone always knew. It was his voice. And his fashion sense. And every little thing about him.

Kurt turned his attention back to Mercedes.

"Do you remember what I said to you?" she asked.

"You told me not to be ashamed, and to tell people about who I am."

She'd been so compassionate, so amazing.

"Yes." Mercedes squeezed his fingers. "I want to be able to do the same. I want to be proud, and I want to tell people about who I am. My belief in God is a big part of that. Do you understand?"

"That's not..." Kurt frowned.

He had a feeling Mercedes had just done something monumentally unfair, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what.

"Try not to argue," Joshua said. "Right now we're just expressing how we feel. Kurt, did you hear what Mercedes had to say?"

"She said that her beliefs are a big part of who she is. I already knew that. And I'm _really_ not suggesting she shouldn't be proud."

Mercedes let go of his hand, giving it a pat to show that she wasn't being unfriendly.

"You say that, but do you really mean it?" she asked. "Do you get that my beliefs are part of who I am? Do you understand how bad it makes me feel when you make fun of them?"

Kurt swallowed. Well, yeah...

"I didn't mean to make fun," he said. "But you're right. I did say some things to... to that effect. But in my defense..." He looked at Joshua. "Can I say something in my defense?"

Joshua just turned to Mercedes, who gave a brief nod.

"In my defense," Kurt said, "it's not like I've been going on and on about it. You didn't even know for sure that I didn't believe, not until last week."

"Mhm." Mercedes hummed. "You want credit for being able to restrain yourself, is that it?"

"Mercedes. This all started when you sang that song about turning to God. I didn't mean to make fun, I was just trying to, you know... let you know that maybe that wasn't the best way to go. For me."

"So it's all my fault?"

"It's nobody's fault. I just..."

"You called God 'a Santa Claus for grown ups.'" She spoke the words as if they were difficult to get out.

He picked up his mug, just to warm his hands. He felt cold.

"I honestly didn't mean to hurt you. I'm sorry."

"I know you are," she said, "I just don't think you understand how important my beliefs are to me."

"You're right. I'm sorry. I get it now."

Kurt took a sip of coffee. He had hurt Mercedes. Saying "sorry" was not good enough.

"Well done, Mercedes," Joshua said. He turned to Kurt. "Now it's your turn."

"Is it really necessary?" Kurt asked. "It happened. I said I'm sorry - and I _am_ \- and it won't happen again."

"Please try not to make excuses," Joshua said. "Just tell Mercedes about how you feel. You owe her that honesty."

Joshua made it sound so easy. But what it Kurt himself wasn't sure about how he felt?

He slowly turned to Mercedes.

"I'm sorry I hurt you and I don't want to do it again. But..." (It probably wasn't good to follow such a sentence with a _but_.) "I don't know how to say it," he said, nearly giving up. "It makes me feel... upset. When you gave me that bible, for instance, it was like..." He fell silent.

"Like what?" Mercedes asked.

"Like it won't ever end."

"What will never end?"

"No, sorry." He put the cup down, rubbed his hands together. "I didn't mean that. That sounded too alarmist. I... I think my real problem was the rejection. I don't think I can handle rejection very well. Not from you, at least. Not from my friends."

He stared down at the table. That. That had to be enough. Surely this level of honesty wasn't good for either of them.

"Kurt," Joshua said, after several moments had passed. "Do you feel like Mercedes has rejected you?"

Kurt nodded.

"I haven't," Mercedes said, sounding puzzled. "It's _you_ who's been rejecting _me_."

Kurt glanced up. "And by you, you mean your religion? Right? But - and I say it again - I was only explaining that it wasn't for me. You were too busy defending your own beliefs to listen to what I was actually saying."

When had this turned into an argument?

"Easy," Joshua held up a hand. "Kurt, you were going to tell us about feeling rejected?"

Mercedes huffed, and Kurt felt it too. This counseling session was coming to a fast end.

"Okay, let me ask this." Kurt was speaking to Joshua rather than Mercedes. "How many atheists do you have in your church?"

"That doesn't make any sense," Mercedes said, impatient. "It's a _church_."

"So you think there aren't any?"

"Why would there be?"

"I don't know," Kurt said. "Maybe they're worried about what would happen if they told anyone. Maybe grandmother would cry, maybe your girlfriend would leave you, maybe you'd lose all of your friends."

Mercedes opened her mouth, closed it again.

"Belief is not a choice," Kurt said, and it felt like he was trembling, deep underneath his skin. Why was this so hard? "I can't believe what I don't believe. I'm sorry I had to push you away, but I couldn't pretend to go along with it. It was the worst day of my life, and… and I just couldn't."

He took a deep breath. He was fine. His dad was fine, everything was fine.

"Kurt," Mercedes said gently. "I don't want you to hide who you are."

Kurt swallowed. "What if who I am is somebody you can't accept?"

"I love you," Mercedes said, her voice horse. "That won't change. But I'm not sure what you want from me right now."

"Just... please stop asking me to agree with you about God. And don't pray for me. No, sorry, I don't mean that, you can pray for me all you want, just don't tell me about it. Not if you expect me to be grateful."

She leaned away from him, incredulous. "Can you even hear yourself? Have you any idea what you sound like right now?"

"Mercedes," Joshua interjected. "Kurt just told you something very important."

Kurt wasn't listening. He was staring at Mercedes, and she was staring back, both of them frozen, none of them looking away. Not until Joshua reached forward and placed his hand like a barrier in the air between them, cutting into both of their views.

Rude.

"Sorry about that," Joshua said, smiling sort of sheepishly. "But I wanted to pause here. Kurt just mentioned prayer. Mercedes, remember that Kurt doesn't view prayer the same way you do. From his perspective, prayers might seem intrusive, maybe even threatening. No. No, excuse me." Joshua quickly shook his head, his lips pressed together. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm engaging in speculation based on my own biases. Bad pretend psychiatrist!"

They all laughed at that.

"Of course," Joshua said, glancing at Mercedes. "From _our_ perspective, prayer is a beautiful act of devotion. It's… powerful, but not intrusive."

Mercedes looked deeply touched by Joshua's words.

"Uh-huh," Kurt said.

He actually had a lot of questions at this point, but he knew better than to give voice to them right now. Prayer was tricky. Based on Kurt's personal experience, prayer could be (1) a way of wishing somebody well and (2) a way of letting somebody know how dirty and sinful and in need of redemption they were. A typical prayer usually managed to combine both of these two.

Kurt had learned not to be polite or patient when a stranger asked, _Can I pray for you?_

But yes, he knew there was more to prayer than that. There was the praise-and-thank-you prayer for instance, something he'd seen firsthand when he'd visited Mercedes' church. ( _Yes,_ it had been unpleasant. Grandmothers with their hands up in the air, like toddlers begging daddy to pick them up. Sue him for not immediately acquiring a taste.)

This wasn't even about one particular religion. Millions of people all over the world were probably on their knees right this instant giving their praises to one deity or another. Thank you for the flowers, thank you for giving me life, thank you for the air that I breathe. It struck Kurt as a colossal waste of time, but then again, so did the Super Bowl. When it came right down to it, he supposed there were worse things you could do with your life than to be grateful all the time.

It was when you threw in obedience and servitude that the whole thing started to look slightly more dubious, to say the least.

Kurt took a drink of coffee.

"For some of us, prayer is a natural way of life," Joshua was saying, sounding relaxed and conversational. "It may be an expression of gratitude, or you might ask for support or assurance when things gets hard."

"I'm familiar with the concept," Kurt said, rolling his eyes. He wasn't a _child._

"I understand that. But did you know that a lot of people claim prayer as the main reason they became convinced of the belief in the first place?"

 _Reasons_ for belief? Risky, risky talk. Kurt looked up at the ceiling. La dee da da da, look at him not responding. Look at him being sensible and not walk up to _that_ particular rabbit hole.

Joshua seemed to take Kurt's silence as encouragement.

"Just that simple act, of turning to God for strength, and then feeling… something. Something that could only be described as God's presence. It's an experience that's brought many people to belief in God."

Kurt snorted, he couldn't help it. "In order to pray to God in the first place, you have to already believe."

Obviously.

Joshua just smiled. "Nevertheless, it's a story we hear over and over again, in churches all across the world. People who don't believe go looking for God, and against all expectations, they find him."

"But how can they know which god they've found?" Kurt asked, amused. "If you don't believe in any of them, the field is wide open for interpretation."

Joshua laughed. "You never know. Maybe it's true that you can't choose your beliefs, but you _can_ choose what kind of teachings you open yourself up to. That way you might learn something you didn't know, and then you'll have no choice but to change your mind."

"I couldn't agree more," Kurt said. He smirked.

"Is that a challenge?" Joshua smirked right back.

This was fun!

"Stop it!" Mercedes said. "You shouldn't joke around about that."

Kurt kind of cringed. He had totally forgotten himself, hadn't he? But then Joshua had made that so easy.

"I guess we're jumping all over the place," Joshua said. "But Mercedes, just so you know, I don't think either of us were being disrespectful or out of line. To me that seemed like a perfectly normal exchange of opinions. But on the other hand, I'm used to talking with nonbelievers." He raised his eyebrows at Kurt. "There's very little you can say to upset me."

"What do you mean?" Kurt asked. "Are you some kind of preacher? Do you go from door to door to tell people about Jesus?"

Because that's what it sounded like.

Joshua laughed. "A preacher? Maybe some day. Right now I mostly just talk to my friends, not all of whom agrees with me by a long shot. All of us really like those kinds of philosophical discussions though. I guess that's why we've stayed friends for so long."

Was that a dig at Kurt and Mercedes? If so, it was... apt.

Still, Kurt gave Joshua a very dry look, and the older boy blinked, only now seeming to realize that he was being somewhat impolite. While, by the way, supposedly playing the role of an impartial professional. (Oh, but his _face_. That was a cover of a magazine, right there.)

"I didn't mean to..." Joshua exhaled. Back to his counseling voice. "You two have big differences in the way you see the world. I didn't mean to make that sound easy. Sometimes it can be a very difficult thing to overcome."

"It doesn't _have_ to be difficult," Kurt said. Or grumbled. "It's not like I'm suddenly different. I'm still the same as I've always been."

"That's true," Joshua said. "Mercedes? You've learned something new about your friend. Maybe this could be an opportunity to get to know each other better, rather than a stumbling block in your relationship?"

There was a long pause.

"I don't know," Mercedes said. "I don't know how to act around him anymore."

She'd said that before, last Friday. It was one of the first things she'd said to him after he'd revealed that he didn't believe in God.

 _I don't know how to be around you anymore._

"I tried," Kurt said. "I mean, I tried not to push you away. I even agreed to go with you to church. And it wasn't terrible. The people were nice, it was nice."

"You hated it."

"No, I didn't. I... I..."

"You tried to smile," Joshua said, unexpectedly, "but it never reached your eyes."

Kurt gave him an incredulous stare, and Joshua raised his hand in a small _what?_ gesture.

"Remember that I was there," he said. "You looked intensely uncomfortable, but that's not so strange. Church services aren't for everybody, whether you believe in God or not."

Mercedes' future boyfriend had noticed Kurt's eyes?

"I don't understand," Mercedes said.

"What don't you understand?" Joshua asked, his voice gentle.

"How can a person just... not believe?"

Kurt decided to let Joshua take this one, which he only seemed happy to do.

"That's a good question," Joshua said. "I think everyone can believe, it's just easier for some people. Some people just get it, they feel connected, it all makes sense to them. Others have to struggle, they're not satisfied. We - and I don't mind counting myself as one of those people - we go looking for knowledge, we study, we question everything. Sometimes that struggle takes us away from God. Sometimes it brings us back with even stronger answers."

Kurt's lips parted. He didn't even agree with everything Joshua was saying, but he still felt... _seen._ Flattered and included.

"That's one of the reasons I wanted to meet you." Joshua said, turning to Kurt. "I was hoping I could be of some assistance in your journey."

What, now?

"Really?" Kurt said, sharp and appropriately portentous. Because, _really?_

"In a manner of speaking." Joshua grinned, a cheerful admission of guilt.

Kurt laughed. "Let me get this right. You saw me in your church. You heard Mercedes when she told everybody in the whole building that I didn't believe in God." A quick glare at Mercedes, who looked nonplussed more than anything else. Back to Joshua. "And the though struck you, 'hey, maybe I can fix that!'"

"Do you think I could?"

"Hah!" Kurt scoffed.

"Then what's the harm in talking about it? We might both learn something. It might even be fun."

"Kurt doesn't want to talk about it," Mercedes said, sounding irritated. "He doesn't want anything to do with other people's beliefs."

"That's not true," Kurt said. "As long as I'm allowed to express my own opinions, it might be kind of interesting."

She gave a sharp huff.

 _What_? He mouthed at her. Okay, he knew what. Still, she deserved that.

Mercedes widened her eyes in rebuke. It looked like, _Stay away from my future boyfriend!_ or possibly, _You utter hypocrite, you don't want me to express my beliefs, but suddenly when a hot guy is talking you're all ears_.

Either way, she kind of had a point.

"I don't know if this is the time-" Kurt started.

"It's not right," Mercedes said. "Religion isn't a competition. It's not something you're supposed to argue about."

"Right," Kurt said, very dry. "So what was the point of giving me a bible?"

"I wasn't going to force you to read it! I just wanted you to have a chance to experience it for yourself. I wanted to..." She fell silent.

"You wanted to give me something you thought I was lacking."

"What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with that is that I'm fine the way I am."

"And so am I!"

"I know!" he said, and then again, calmer, "I think you're fine the way you are too."

"Of course you don't think that. You think I'm stupid."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"No! I _never_ thought-"

"Can I interject something right now?" Joshua's voice stayed low and calm. "Mercedes. You're bound to meet some misunderstandings and preconceived notions once you start being open about what you believe. I try to see it as an opportunity to learn. Sure, they might think I'm stupid, and sometimes they even say it to my face. But you know what? I don't know everything, and I've never claimed to know everything. If I'm being stupid, I want to know about it. That's how you get smarter."

"That's..." Mercedes pursed he lips. "One way to look at it."

"I don't go around calling people stupid," Kurt said.

"Of course you don't," Mercedes said, like she meant the opposite.

Kurt looked down at his half-drunk coffee. Out of nowhere, he felt exhausted. He couldn't win. He couldn't win this one. Whatever he did, she would always remember that there was a part of her that he hadn't accepted.

"Right," he whispered.

This would be a good time to not talk anymore.

"Kurt." Joshua leaned closer. "Don't look so dejected. You're doing fine."

"No thanks to you."

Ouch.

"I understand why you might feel that way."

Joshua smiled - a psychiatrist's smile, calmly superior, like he though he could see everything Kurt couldn't see. It was so blatant, Kurt realized he was being teased. It would have been funny, except he was pretty sure Joshua was wrong. Joshua didn't know Mercedes, not like Kurt did, and he was _not_ doing fine. Not where she was concerned.

Kurt got to his feet and turned to Joshua.

"It was nice meeting you. Thanks for the coffee. I'll be heading home now. School, homework, you know how it is. Mercedes..."

"See you tomorrow." Her goodbye almost perfunctory. She didn't look at him.

"Yes, tomorrow. Um... don't stay out too late? Or your mom might call me."

" _Bye_ , Kurt."

At least that made her sound like her usual self.

Kurt turned and hesitantly walked away. Before leaving the coffee shop he glanced back, and saw Joshua talking intently to Mercedes, gesturing in a way that made Kurt think he was trying to persuade her about something. Judging by the way she was leaning forward to listen, he had at least managed to hold her interest.

Mercedes' maybe future boyfriend who fancied himself a preacher and liked to argue with non-believers. Joshua, who seemed _entertained_ by Kurt's non-belief. Not hurt, not threatened. Entertained.

Was Kurt nuts for starting to feel cautiously optimistic about the whole thing?

Here's a thought: if they hadn't talked about it now, they might never have talked about it. They might have tried to go on as usual, ignoring the little hurts along the way. Occasionally one of them would say something sharp and pointed, and there would be those weird outbursts of tension and hurt feelings, and neither of them would know if the other one had done it on purpose or what. And they would just never talk about it.

(Kind of like Kurt and his dad at the dinner table, before football and glee and big revelations. Walking lightly around the subjects of dating, of girls, of boys, of clothes, of the future, of anything real. Always on guard, always a little bit scared that the direct question would be asked, and you would either have to lie and lie or... or that would be the end of it. Maybe it hadn't been like that for his dad, maybe it had all been in Kurt's head, but in either case it had been _fucking_ stressful).

Mercedes seemed to feel his eyes on her. She looked up from her conversation with Joshua, and she raised her hand in a high wave of goodbye. He did the same, echoing the gesture, the proper goodbye. Both smiling, and everything felt nice and normal between them again.

See? They could fix this. They were Kurt and Mercedes, still. He wasn't giving up on her.


	8. Rat

**Chapter 8**

Today wasn't going to be a good day. Kurt could tell from how the morning light hit the refrigerator door, illuminating spots and grease-stains and a yellow discoloration that could only have come about from age. Kurt couldn't remember them ever owning a different refrigerator, it was a wonder it even worked anymore. It was a wonder they hadn't died years ago from poisoned spores and staphylococcus.

Bah.

Kurt didn't feel right... right in his skin. He'd woken up wrong. He'd woken up on the wrong side of the bed. He should just skip today. Skip school today. For the first time in his life, just don't go? He couldn't. Of course not, it was just an idle thought. He just had to wake up properly and everything would be fine.

He ate breakfast still wearing his pajamas. A simple bowl of yogurt and granola, over which he dallied unreasonably long while reading and re-reading the poem he'd written last night for the war poetry English assignment, and then left on the table like a message to himself.

 _Pretend you're a soldier,_ was the assignment, _pretend you're writing a poem from the front._ They'd been reading stuff both depressing and inspiring, like _In Flanders Fields_ "We are the dead." And Emily Dickinson (who knew?) and Wilfred Owen (of course) "What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?" Plus bits and pieces of Homer (yawn).

It all seemed to mix together, lines presumably timeless, one war all in all. _Half a league, half a league onward, into the mouth of hell (we go). I think we shall surely meet again. Roses, roses all the way._

At the end they'd been expected to pull a poem out of their asses, just like the teacher Mrs. Johnson had probably pulled this assignment out of hers, and after coming back from meeting Mercedes and Joshua at the coffee shop and generally feeling tired and weird, he'd sat down and done it. He'd written without thought and corrections, this cramped little poem:

I'm a soldier in a war  
I wasn't born for this war  
I was born to be human  
But I'm a soldier in a war  
I wear the uniform  
Of this war  
I walk the walk and talk the talk  
Of this war  
If you spit on me I don't care because you don't understand  
I'm a soldier in a war  
If you strike me down it's not happening to me  
It's happening to a soldier  
My name is Kurt  
And I'm a soldier in a war

Okay, that was crap, right? Crap, crappity, crap, crap. He couldn't hand that in. He wasn't a soldier. Being a soldier was the opposite of individuality, and individuality was what he was all about. But that, stupid, was the assignment - to pretend. So what was the problem? Was the problem that it... wasn't pretend? Ha! Suuure. That was it. He was wearing a uniform. He was fighting and dying for his right to wear tight pants. He did his hair for people to mock. His scarves were war paint and his voice a declaration of loyalty (to the cause of anal sex, everyone knew).

And one of these days he would get himself beaten bloody, and that wouldn't be surprising because he'd known what he'd gotten himself into. He'd known all along.

No. Do-over.

And one of these days he would find somebody who was just like him, and that would be his soulmate, his perfect twin. And they would walk down a street holding hands, he could see it now.

(No, he couldn't. He was holding hands with his dad, and he was eight years old.)

Right.

Note to self: You're in no position to have good ideas once you start feeling that the color of the refrigerator is in any way significant, let alone a massage from supernatural forces of premonition that you don't even believe are real.

With angry, shaking movements Kurt put the assignment in a folder and stuck it in his school bag. It was done. So what if he couldn't stand behind it? It was better than nothing. It was better than an F.

Oh God, he was turning into one of those degenerate, slacker students who waited until the very last minute to scribble together some useless drivel for the assignments and then _got away with it_. No pride in their work whatsoever. Kurt had got to get his act back in order, this wasn't even remotely who he wanted to be. He had a standard to uphold. He was...

Actually, today he wasn't sure what to wear. He'd been feeling the late-summer rural fashion lately. Less flashy, more... knitwear. Gray tones. Steel blue, rust red, brown. Soft and flowing. Small touches of irony, a signifying broche, an are-you-kidding-me-with-that European east block cap all but spouting a red star on the brim.

Life was strange.

Anyhow, today (he should stay at home). Today he should go for something harder. Less vulnerable, less approachable, more...

He bounded down the stairs and slid open the door to his wardrobe. He needed... something tough. Yes. If he'd owned a pair of spiked knuckle braces, he'd wear them. He'd wear them, and he'd totally get away with it too. The teachers collectively - and politely, and thankfully - never remarked on whatever Kurt choose to wear, even that time he'd put on a skirt (it was a kilt) and he'd had to lock himself into the bathroom to change into something less... just less.

 _Do it, hit me._

You know what, this would be the time to break in his knee-high Doc Marten boots. He'd shape his outfit around them, and - yes. He pulled down a pair of black pants with _three_ studded, inbuilt belts, crisscrossing each other down the hips and low on the waist. Good, but what to wear with that, was the dilemma. He couldn't go all black, that was insane, and he couldn't wear anything too formal or elaborate either, not with those pants. It should be plain, maybe deconstructed, even. Or...? Okay, fine. He pulled open a drawer of stay-at-home clothes to find a simple grey t-shirt. He quickly got changed and stepped in front of his full length mirror to inspect the results.

Holy... punk emo costume.

Nah. Actually, the problem was the t-shirt. What had he been thinking? He should contrast with something soft, something... knitwear. Kurt laughed for no good reason.

Like he could ever pull off tough.

But, yeah. He found the sweater, and it looked great. Not knitwear, but a cream and sky-blue cashmere, with wide stripes and a swooping neckline. The sleeves ought to have looked too long on him, coming down to cover half of his hands, but really it fit perfectly.

Kurt turned around in front of the mirror to look at his outfit from the back. Yes. Pretty damn good if he'd say so himself. Maybe he should wear knee-high boots more often.

Now to get his hair fixed, and to find a jacket and maybe a hat. No, he should indulge himself and get his old French beret. For comfort. But quickly, he had less than half an hour before he had to be in the car.

* * *

Kurt should have stayed at home.

It didn't matter that he wasn't sick and that everybody was expecting him and that he was wearing fabulous boots. He should have called in sick because on the drive to school he'd seen a pale, yellow dog out of the corner of his eye and he'd been sure, so sure, that the dog would run out in front of the car, and that that would be the end of that dog. Turned out the dog was on a leash, but Kurt still couldn't shake how close it had been. The rest of the drive was just slow heart-pounding caution. Children, bicyclists, an old man with a walker, that guy getting out of his car on the side of the road. Fragility all around.

There were patterns of tree-shadows over the road, and the car went in and out of them, patterns of light and shadow. It was distracting, was what it was, and Kurt had to keep his eyes everywhere. It wasn't fair that people and dogs had to die on the side of the road because of Kurt's carelessness.

When Kurt arrived at school, he felt small and shaky. People died every day, and it was too much, too much to think about the uncomprehending pain of the dog, not understanding the reason why it could have ended on the side of the road. From brief happiness, paws trotting along, crisp air in the nose. To have _that_ happen, and Kurt wasn't sure how he was expected to take care of everything when he never saw it coming.

He parked his car (very carefully) in the parking lot outside McKinley High. And then he remained inside the parked car, just sitting there staring out of the windscreen, feeling defeated.

The doctor at the hospital had said-

His dad wasn't out of the woods yet.

Who had said that? It wasn't the doctor, the doctor had said, had said, "we have to wait and see," had said, "be ready for the long haul." Had said, "the hospital has a chaplain if you want to talk to somebody."

Had said, "oh I'm sorry for assuming. Would you like a mint?"

Had said, "your dad is very lucky to have such a loving and dedicated son to wake up to. I'm sure you would never go on and on about his diet and make him feel guilty for having a heart attack."

(That was a lie. The doctor hadn't said that last bit.)

Kurt's hands were on the steering wheel, folded together in a position that reminded him of prayer.

Prayer? Pff.

But, you know...

What if?

What if it was all connected? What if it was a great purpose and meaning to it all, and all he had to do was accept it and it would make sense?

If it were a choice (maybe it was?) could he choose it now, just to try it out? What kind of safety, what kind of stability, what feeling of belonging, what sense of peace would it bring? Maybe if he wanted it, it would be there for him, waiting. Like everybody said it would. Not the Jesus God, because there was just no way, but some generic, good, everlasting... feeling thing. That would care for him. That he would be cared for.

Kurt got out of the car and locked it.

His key-chain had a small metal heart, and he was being stupid.

One pointed suggestion from Mercedes' handsome almost-boyfriend-preacher-boy from church, and suddenly Kurt was considering prayer? Since... why? But hey, what was that saying, "there are no atheists in foxholes?" Weren't non-believers _supposed_ to grasp at straws in times of crisis? Since... since why? Since death was such a convincing argument.

Nah. He was still being stupid.

Everything was fine. He had nice boots and a swing to his step. The morning sky was high above him, his friends were waiting for him inside. Kurt was fine, he wasn't in any foxhole, no one had died, _no one had died_. He was letting irrelevancies drag him down. Meanwhile, God was the perfect trap, the perfect way to turn the mind in on itself, to limit and blind and hobble.

Also, duh. God. As in, the bible. As in, the disapproving God that didn't want girls to dance, and shame, shame, shame on them if they did.

No. Kurt was better off not even drinking from that cup. Of poison.

 _Feel it burn me  
_ _I have changed  
_ _I'm not as sure  
_ _As when we started  
_ _Dee da dam dam dam_

Show tunes were a perfectly legitimate thing to pop into your head.

Kurt didn't notice them at first, walking up behind him. On one side Azimio and Karofsky, wearing their red jackets like emblems of perpetual pardon. On his other side some guys, just some guys not even on the team, some asshole friends of Karofsky and Azimio. One of them with a blond buzz cut and the beginnings of a double chin, the other with dark bangs and a bad complexion. Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber. Kurt had seen them before, around, but they had never bothered him before, and they had no business doing it now. Neither as large or intimidating as Azimio and Karofsky, just some tagalongs, sauntering along for no good reason and for the crime of _that_ they deserved to die a bloody messy death by a car, splat (sorry, he didn't mean that).

"Hey, homo." Azimio, the greeting almost friendly.

Sigh.

They steered him towards the dumpsters, naturally. The casual walk of the sneaky, acting like they'd forgotten he was there. Like, nothing to see here, nothing out of the ordinary, just dropping something off along the way. All quick and subtle like.

Dumpster tosses didn't happen to Kurt as often as they once had. Not since that time when he'd kicked a ball over a bar and won himself a fair bit of approval from what had felt like the entire school. Didn't mean it had ceased entirely, except now it was in the hands of stragglers, and the whole thing had turned more covert and unpredictable. No Finn to make him feel looked after and no Puck to lead the masses into making a jolly spectacle of it all.

Two big dumpsters, only one with the lid still open, black garbage bags stuffed to the brim. Kurt held his breath to avoid the smell of the garbage. It usually didn't smell this bad, but today the asphalt in front of the dumpster was a mess. Torn pieces of paper, scattered everywhere, fries and pieces of lettuce and unidentifiable smears. A sticky mess of leftovers. One of the garbage bags was broken, letting birds and who knows what-

The sound of scurrying, little clever claws on metal, and Kurt looked up to see a brown rat running along the edge of the dumpster, and with a funny little leap it dove right in and pressed its little body between two bulging plastic bags. Tiny back feet kicked the air before it disappeared.

A rat. Small and sort of cute, but still. A. Rat. They were all staring at the place where the rat had disappeared, purpose derailed by unexpected break in routine.

"Let's skip it this time, guys," Kurt said, smiling since of course it had to be skipped.

"Dude," Azimio said absently, still staring at the dumpster. "You can't back down now. You know how it goes."

No. Nuh-huh. Bedrock. Line in the sand. No.

"Any other day, I wouldn't even attempt to argue that point, deplorable as it is. However-"

However, rat. Leftovers. Exceptions on account of smell. Kurt couldn't believe they were still thinking of getting through with it.

Two of them weren't even football players.

"Are you scared?" That was Tweedledumb, the buzz cut, talking in an appalling baby voice. "Is the wittle baby scared of getting his pretty cwothes dirty?"

Unacceptable.

"Who's the new guy?" Kurt directed his question at Azimio, and only Azimio. He tried very hard not to be aware of Karofsky at his back, silent and radiating hate like heat from a furnace.

Azimio glanced at Kurt.

"Princess," he said, amused. "Meet Tommy. Tommy, Princess."

"Charmed, I'm sure," Kurt said. "Now let me explain to you, _Tommy_ , why you have no power over me. Besides, that is, the obvious fact that you're an unfortunate amount-to-nothing _nobody_ with bad breath and - I'm sorry to have to inform you - a lamentable reduction of brain facility on account of sticking too many pencils up your nose."

Look at Kurt, taking his fear of leftovers out on innocent bystanders.

At least Azimio was laughing, since of course he liked that sort of thing.

"Fuck, what are we waiting for?" new guy Tommy said, and then he was taking liberties by grabbed Kurt's elbow and ow, ow, fingers digging in. Kurt made himself not react.

"Yeah, toss him already," the other new guy said, sounding nervous, but looking at Azimio and Karofsky for directions.

The dumpsters weren't exactly in plain view from the parking lot, but anyone walking by would be able to see them if they turned their attention that way. Dumpster tosses were a game of timing and precision, and you weren't supposed to protest or put up a fight.

"I know this is all making some kind of sense inside that round and moderately misshapen head of yours," Kurt said hurriedly. New guy was pulling at his arm, making him take one step closer to the dumpster, which was one step too many as far as Kurt was concerned. "But I'm here to tell you, _Tommy,_ an introduction isn't enough. We need _at least_ two months of locker checks and intimidation in order to establish the proper bully-bull-ee relationship. Anything else would set a dangerous precedent that I just _cannot_ endorse. Now let go of me!"

Kurt tugged his arm loose. It wasn't even that hard, just twist and pull and back away.

"What the fuck did you call me?" New guy took one threatening step closer, his fist raised.

Uh-oh. Uh-oh.

"Are you going to hit me?" Kurt was grinning, oh so vindicated. "Go ahead. Do it, hit me. If you think that's going to make you any less of a bully, I don't even know what to say. Except-"

Someone grabbed him from behind, nearly lifting him off the ground.

Kurt screamed. There was no thought to it, he just did. He tried to get loose, but there were two strong arms around his shoulders and chest, trapping him and squeezing him tight. He was caught and trapped by Karofsky, and ew, that was Karofsky's mouth right next to his ear, and Karofsky's damp breath on his cheek.

Kurt squirmed and flailed, and holy crap, was Karofsky strong, hoisting him off the ground all by himself, the two massive arms around Kurt tightening like they wanted to squeeze the life out of him.

"Oh, shit," nervous new guy said.

Kurt kicked backwards, and his heel impacted hard with Karofsky's shin. Ouch. That had to hurt.

(sorry)

Any time now they would get noticed.

This wasn't how dumpster tosses worked.

And now somehow Karofsky was taking Kurt _behind_ the dumpster, walking them backwards into the narrow passage between the dumpster and the brick wall.

"Get his legs!" Azimio, like a general, telling the new guys what to do.

A beat of hesitation, and Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber squeezed into the passage with them. Kurt kicked at them without compunction, since apparently that's what he did now, and there was more yelling, no one was silent anymore. His boots were grabbed, Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber had one of his legs each. Karofsky's breath was next to his ear. Completely caught, Kurt stopped struggling.

All of them waiting, panting and confused.

This wasn't how dumpster tosses worked. Someone had to be making a mistake.

Azimio was standing out in the sunlight, his back towards them. The valiant lookout, while the rest of them hid.

You weren't supposed to make a fuss.

It smelled like piss back here.

"Ow ow, shit," bad complexion was hissing, and adjusted his grip on Kurt's boot. "He kicked me! Fucking sprained my finger, fuck."

"Aw. Did poor wittle baby get a booboo on his hand?"

Tommy seemed to have found his shtick and was sticking to it.

"He's wearing steel toed boots!" A whispered whine. "Look, these are fucking steel toed boots."

Kurt's foot was viciously twisted to the side. It would have hurt if it hadn't been for the thick leather protecting his ankle. Kurt inhaled sharply though his nose. And let's take a moment to contemplate that Karofsky was literally _breathing down his neck._

This was bad, right?

Karofsky still hadn't said a word, but Kurt could actually feel Karofsky's heartbeat, pressed up against Kurt's back, beating away. It was strangely intimate, the way Karofsky was silent and the new guys were squabbling with pinched voices, sounding scared and excited at the same time.

"Stripper boots," Tommy said.

"Dude."

"Probably worth a lot."

"We should take them."

"Take the boots."

"Take the pants."

Laughing like it was clever.

Both of the new guys turned their eyes to Kurt's midsection, exposed as it was, his jacket and sweater bunched up under Karofsky's arms. Contemplating the elaborate fastening of his tight, sturdy pants.

Karofsky's heart was a steady beat against Kurt's back.

"Well, I'm not doing it."

"Me either."

"I don't want to touch him."

"No one wants to _touch_ him."

"Fucking fag."

Kurt had the distinct impression that the quality of the company Karofsky kept had taken a marked downturn lately. If he had been Karofsky's parents, he would have found a genuine cause for worry.

"It's okay!" Azimio called back over his shoulder. "Just toss him, already."

A pause, Karofsky's breath against his ear, enough of a pause to make Kurt feel like _oh_ , and then they were out in the sunlight in front of the dumpster and without even a one two three Kurt was airborne. That weightless moment, fear of a hard landing, and then Kurt's back met soft plastic and he was in.

Lay there panting, staring at the sky, blue. Heard them snicker as they walked away, four asshole boys, delighted at getting away with it. Two of them not even in the jacket, fuck them very much. A rustle by Kurt's ear and he was reminded. Rat.

Rat, rat, rat.

He was out, trembling legs made him clumsy, made him crouch down by the dumpster on his hands and feet. His hands on the dirty asphalt, rough with little pebbles and smeared with leftover food. He stood up, swaying. He shouldn't touch the ground. His hands were dirty.

He looked around for a patch of grass to wipe them clean. There wasn't any grass, but he saw his beret dropped and forgotten on the ground, so he picked it up and used it as a towel. Wiped the front of his hands, the back, and threw the beret into the dumpster. With a sound like a caress, it landed on top of a black plastic bag.

And oh no, oh no, oh no. Why did he _do_ that?

Rewind, rewind!

That beret was his favorite, had always given him comfort, don't ask him why. Comfort like a little animal holding it in his hand. Resting on his head. Wearing it and feeling warm. He'd bought it ten six seven years ago with a pile of quarters he'd earned in his dad's shop, running errands and fetching tools. Bought it since it looked French and since it appealed to him. Not bright and flashy but kind. A small animal with a personality of its own, soft and easy and saved for care.

He looked at the beret, up there on the garbage bags, and his breath turned to sobs, just one look and already he was crying. He didn't exactly _feel_ like crying, but apparently that's what his body had decided to do.

Cry.


	9. Grapes and counselling

**Chapter 9**

The post dumpster toss tears lasted long enough for Kurt to start getting coolly worried about himself. He wasn't sure what was wrong with him, why every time he thought he was done, his chest seized up, the muscles of his face grew taut and there was another round of sobbing.

Seriously, what?

Yes, he'd woken up on the wrong side of bed this morning, but he wasn't _that_ badly off. He wasn't _really_ crying over a tossed-away beret. Or a dumpster toss. Kurt's been tossed, oh maybe a hundred times by now. Nothing new here. The only reason Karofsky and the rest of them had taken him _behind_ the dumpster was because he'd made a fuss - screamed and kicked and left them with little choice. They couldn't just walk away after that, duh.

Right. Okay, that was enough of _that_. Kurt closed his eyes and took a few sob-free breaths. He wiped his wet cheeks using the shoulders of his jacket since his hands still weren't clean enough. First order of business: go to the bathroom and wash his hands. He took another breath, and when he opened his eyes he felt a hundred percent better. Seventy-five percent better. Anyway, he was fine now.

Good. Glad that was over. He'd been slightly concerned there for a second. Like, for his sanity.

Kurt took a few steps away from the ill-smelling dumpsters, and that, the act of walking reminded him of the boots he was wearing. His kick-ass boots. He made a face, looking down. Steel-toed boots. He'd really _kicked_ those boys, hadn't he? Not even holding back. He could feel it now, an echo of how his boots had connected. Kick, impact. Felt it reverberating through his legs. Ouch. That... ouch. Must have hurt quite a lot.

He supposed he should be grateful that a dumpster toss was all the retribution they'd bothered to mete out. Like, wow. Was he stupid - don't answer that. _Why_ was he stupid?

Don't kick the bullies. Very basic rule.

Funny story, for Kurt's 14th birthday he'd wished for (and gotten) a book called _The Art of War,_ written 2,500 years ago by a Chinese general named Sun Tzu - supposedly one of the most brilliant military strategists who ever lived. Kurt had been hoping to pick up some useful tips before he started high school.

Yes, he'd been plotting to rule the school, what of it?

Mwahaha. Well, not really. But he'd been plotting to do _something._ Just _something_ to... well.

It had been a useless idea anyway. After having read the book three times - it was really rather short - Kurt could summarize all applicable advice in one sentence: _Don't start fights you can't win._ Or maybe, _This is how you win battles if you have the army of Imperial China at your disposal. Neener neener._

Kurt hissed, still staring down at his boots. Sun Tzu would have been so disappointed.

"Kurt? It that you?"

Oh! Kurt turned around. It was Miss Pillsbury, looking slim and elegant in her red coat and high heels. Out of place in the less-than-grand setting by the parking lot, but then she'd always stuck him that way - like a senator on her way to something important, not like somebody working at this school.

She stopped a few steps away from him, studying him with a concerned tilt to her head.

Here's to hoping his face didn't give away that he'd been crying.

"Are you alright?"

No such luck.

"Excuse me," Kurt said. "I was going inside to wash my hands."

He held up his hands and she recoiled, quick and bird-like.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Nothing. I just... fell."

Well done. Not.

Miss Pillsbury pursed her lips. Instead of letting him go, she opened her red purse and pulled out a wet wipe. Gingerly, she held it out for him to take. It wasn't surprising that Miss Pillsbury would be carrying wet wipes around, considering her well-known habit of cleaning every door handle before opening the door. Not that carrying those around was a bad idea. Maybe Kurt should start doing that as well.

"Thank you," he said, wiping his hands with some satisfaction.

Thank you and good bye, is what he meant.

She was still standing there, not budging an inch. "I've been hoping to catch you, Kurt. What do you think about coming to my room for a little chat?"

He was shaking his head before she'd finished speaking. No, he didn't feel like talking with the school guidance counselor, didn't need her soft, probing questions and compassionate eyes. He just wanted to get through the day. French, math, home ec, lunch, English and glee. And after school he'd curl up at the foot of his dad's hospital bed like a puppy, and that would be the extent of his ambitions, just for today.

"I have class," he said. Smiling, since it was a nice of her to offer.

He did have class. And Mercedes was probably waiting for him by his locker. Maybe she'd have an update on how the rest of her "date" had gone. Maybe it had turned into a real date after Kurt had left. If so, he would congratulate her and she would hug him (that wasn't needy at all).

"I'll write you a pass," Miss Pillsbury said. "Would you please come with me? Just to sit down for a bit?"

She was being awfully insistent. Did his face really look that bad? He needed a mirror (he had a mirror. It was in his bag, he'd check himself as soon as possible).

She smiled and leaned closer like she was telling him a secret. "I have a coffee maker in my office. I could make us some if you want."

He hesitated. "Alright."

It wasn't the coffee that convinced him, it was her kindness. And the coffee. Also, his face. Actually, whatever. Kurt reached inside his bag, feeling around for his round little pocket mirror. He found it and flipped the lid open. Huh. His face was maybe a bit worried-looking, but otherwise normal. Not a trace of tears. Which made sense. Even though it had felt longer, the whole crying thing couldn't possibly have lasted more than a few minutes, if that.

Kurt snapped the mirror shut.

"Come along then," Miss Pillsbury said.

She led the walk into the school. Kurt felt slightly absurd, following in her wake down the hallway. At least it wasn't far. She closed her office door behind them, cutting out the noise from the world outside.

"Please take a seat," she murmured in a wind-chime voice.

Kurt sank down on the padded chair in front of her desk. Allowed himself to relax. Miss Pillsbury's room was cozy, filled with plants and books and warm colors. An oasis of civilization. Maybe agreeing to this hadn't been such a bad idea after all.

Too bad about the glass wall facing the corridor. Now everyone walking by would see him sitting with the guidance counselor. Kurt refrained from glancing that way, but he kept his back straight and his legs crossed. His boots did much to put gravitas behind the pose. Uh-huh. If he had to be on display, at least he would make an effort to look good. Also, there was nothing wrong about sitting with Miss Pillsbury.

She of occasional wisdom.

She was taking her time, hanging up her coat and opening a corner cabinet to reveal a tiny coffee maker, conveniently hidden inside. She lifted a glass pitcher from a side table and started pouring water into the machine, a soothing, steady sound. Stood still for a moment once she'd finished, simply holding the pitcher before gently placing it back. She opened a wooden jar and picked up a silver measuring spoon. Filled it with ground coffee, once, twice, not spilling a single grain. Like a Japanese tea ceremony, she was making each movement into a trail of perfection.

He had to admire something about all that.

Coffee preparations done, she sat down in her chair on the other side of the desk. They sat in silence, listening to the water starting to heat.

"Kurt," she said, her voice low and unobtrusive. "You know my door is always open to you, even if you just want to take a break from all the hustle and bustle out there."

Kurt nodded, smiling. It felt like special treatment, but he didn't mind. Don't tell anyone, but he actually liked Miss Pillsbury quite a lot. Maybe he really should take her up on her offer. Once in a blue moon.

"So," she said. She twined her thin hands together, leaning closer. "Just now outside the school...?"

"Nothing. I mean, I'd rather not talk about it right now. Please."

He wasn't sure what she suspected - well no, he knew what she suspected, which was pretty much exactly what had happened. There was no use talking about what she already knew.

"But, Kurt-"

"Please."

"That's fine," she said, soothing. "We can talk about something else. Would you like a grape?"

"Not really."

But she was already opening a plastic container filled with light green grapes. She held the container out for him. Each one of the grapes reflected the light, like translucent glass orbs. Pretty. He found that he did want one after all.

"Thank you."

He picked a grape and bit into it, crisp and juicy and sweet. Their beauty really did add something special. What had she done, waxed and polished each grape individually?

You know, if something out of the ordinary did happen... with Karofsky. If it did come to that. Then Miss Pillsbury wouldn't be the worst person to confide in. She'd be able to help him, because that was her job. And Kurt was pretty sure she'd believe him.

See, Puck? Kurt could be totally pro-active about this.

For now though, a dumpster-toss gone slightly wrong was nothing special. She knew. That is, she knew about the general stuff. Name calling. Slushies. Kurt had _seen_ wet and crying students in her office. Seen them through the glass, sitting in this very seat.

She hummed. Took a grape of her own.

"I'm so glad your dad is getting better," she said.

There was a wealth of feeling on her expressive face. Of course there was, she'd been there from the start. She'd fetched him from French class to drive him to the hospital, she and Mr. Schue. She'd been there when the doctor had first given him the news. Heart attack. Coma. Good thing _that_ was over.

"Yeah," he breathed.

"He isn't home yet, is he?" A cautious question.

"Not yet." He smiled, reassuring. Reassuring them both. "He'll be back in a few days, I think. I'm visiting him today. He's doing much better."

"I'm still not comfortable with you staying on your own." She sounded like she was walking on eggshells. Had they had this conversation before?

"My dad trusts me, he always trusts me to be alone in the house. Always. Ask him! You can even talk to him now." Oh yeah, that's right. She _had_ been kind of hesitant about him living by himself, waiting for his dad to come home. Which - bah. Where else was he supposed to be? Don't be ridiculous.

"No, no, that's alright. But he'll be home soon?"

"Yes!"

"Good, good. That's all that matters."

Kurt scowled down at her desk.

"But apart from that." Miss Pillsbury cleared her throat. "How are things for you, Kurt? It's been such a long time since we really talked. You've been more cheerful since you joined glee club, isn't that right?"

"Right. Yes. So much better." He wasn't really listening to her.

"That's nice. I'm glad they could be there for you last week."

"Mhm," Kurt said, a little too light. Be there for him. Right.

"I'm so sorry about Sue," Miss Pillsbury said. She grabbed a pen and fiddled around with it.

Wait.

"Excuse me?" What was this about Coach Sue Sylvester, the most intimidating of all the teachers there ever was and ever would be? Strange to hear Miss Pillsbury call her "Sue."

"I know it's not very professional of me to mention other employees of... well, never mind." Miss Pillsbury laid the pen down on the table, looking earnest. "She should _never_ have done what she did. Last week should have been about what was best for you, and only you. She made it all about herself and her silly feud with Will."

Uh- _huh_.

"You're referring to Coach Sylvester going to the school board on my behalf?"

She nodded.

"Coach Sylvester had a legitimate complaint," Kurt said, more pleasantly than he felt. "She disapproved of Mr. Schue's off-the-cuff, let's-all-sing-about-religion lesson plan. And the school board agreed with her, didn't they?"

"Only because they were worried about lawsuits."

"And that would be because Mr. Schue was breaking the law."

Slam. Dunk. Kurt was so right about this. He wasn't even sure why they seemed to be having a discussion.

The coffee maker made a small gurgling gasp and fell silent. Miss Pillsbury glanced to the side, distracted.

"Oh, Kurt. No, he wasn't." She got up from her chair and walked over to the coffee cabinet, talking without looking at him. "It's not illegal for a school to allow its students to express their own sense of spirituality, and that was all that was going on in that classroom. Do you take milk?"

"Yes, please."

Kurt was starting to get a seriously bad feeling about this.

Miss Pillsbury placed a cup of coffee on the desk in front of him, followed by one of those sealed little portions of milk. She sat back down, and finally seemed to notice the disgruntled look on Kurt's face.

She sighed, shaking her head. "I'm not saying it's all cut and dry. Imagine for instance if Will- if Mr. Schuester had taken the opportunity to proselytize, or if he'd used his authority to condemn any particular religion of the students in his class. Well, that would have been an entirely different matter. It would still have required severe or repeated infractions before he'd effectively broken the law. Teachers are people too, you know. We're allowed to have beliefs and values of our own."

She was making so much sense. Dammit.

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

"I didn't mean to - to..." Kurt shifted his gaze away from her suddenly concerned face. "Any other time I might have been fine, but..." He blinked, swallowing through a tight throat.

He'd thought he'd been standing up for his rights. He'd thought he'd been on the side of law and justice and the Constitution. Turned out he'd just been petty.

He really, really hated feeling petty.

"Oh no, don't misunderstand me!" Miss Pillsbury said, her hands fluttering. "You didn't do anything wrong. That's all on Sue. She owes you a big apology."

"She was helping me. She was the only one who was on my side."

"Here, now," Miss Pillsbury smiled, soft and a little amused. "That's a bit overly dramatic, don't you think? You have a lot of people that care about you."

"I know." Crap. He did know that. "It just... I don't know. When they found out I didn't believe in God, it was like that was suddenly all that mattered. It was all, 'Hey, Kurt, I'm going to sing a song about God and your dad. Hey, Kurt, let's all pray for your dad. What do you _mean_ , you don't believe in God? You can't _prove_ he doesn't exist.' It was God, God, God, all the time, inside and outside of glee. Excuse me for trying to put an end to it!"

Okay. Um. Wow. Kurt put a hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh, kind of shocked by his own outburst.

Miss Pillsbury was staring at him, her mouth open in a silent _oh_. Liza Minnelli, Audrey Hepburn. Twiggy. Somebody hurry, take a picture.

"Well," she said. "I'm sure your friends only wanted to help. It... it can be very comforting to feel like somebody is looking after you, is caring for your life."

"Great. Tell me something else I didn't already know."

 _Man_ , he was being rude to her.

Kurt watched Miss Pillsbury open her mouth to speak, but then fall silent. She picked up her cup and took a sip of coffee, looking like she was deep in thought. Incidentally, the way she was holding her cup was so elegant, using both hands, one underneath the cup, resting lightly-

 _No,_ Kurt wasn't taking notes on how his guidance counselor was drinking her coffee.

(Yes, he totally was. Shut up.)

Kurt diverted his attention to his own cup. Poured in the milk, whatever. He knew it tasted acceptable without, but points to Miss Pillsbury who'd asked. Unlike Joshua. Who also wanted to be some kind of a counselor, come to think about it.

Add _school guidance counselor_ to the column of jobs that Kurt didn't want.

He took a sip from his coffee. Another advantage of milk - it cooled the coffee down. The silence was starting to give him the jitters. What was she waiting for? Was he supposed to apologize? If so, the silence would last for a very long time.

"You know, Kurt," Miss Pillsbury finally said. "Students come to my office for all types of guidance. Scholastic. Personal... and spiritual."

Kurt sighed, a disgruntled sigh. "I went to church with Mercedes last Sunday. Isn't that spiritual enough?"

"Mercedes invited you to her church?" She leaned back in her chair. "I see. And how was that for you?"

"It was alright. Not my thing."

"Is it possible you didn't give the experience a fair chance?"

Her voice was so mild, it almost didn't register what she was saying. Then Kurt gave her a very level stare.

"You're suggesting I should become a Christian, is that it?"

"No, no, goodness, no." She sounded scandalized. "That's entirely up to you. I'm just saying, it can be a great comfort to- to-"

"To live in a delusion?"

Miss Pillsbury fell silent, her face closed off. Right. Kurt had gone too far. Again.

"Kurt," she said. "You're much too young to be so cynical."

What? Kurt stared at her, hurt.

"There's so many mysterious and wonderful things in life," she said, looking grave. "So many great experiences waiting for you in your future."

"And I'm looking forward to it," he said. What did she mean, _cynical_? "I- I don't understand what you're trying to say to me. I want wonderful things to happen. And I'm a good person. I- I want to _help_ people, I want to be k-kind."

Right. And now he was stammering. What was _wrong_ with him?

Her eyes were wide. "Oh, no! I didn't mean it like that, of course not. I was simply concerned about you - about what you were saying. Mercedes tried to do something nice. You shouldn't interpret that in the worst way possible."

"I'm not doing that. I know she wanted me to feel better. It just wasn't for me." Maybe if he talked slowly, she and Mercedes and the entire world would accept that and move on.

Miss Pillsbury looked sad. "She wanted to share something with you. I sincerely hope you didn't see it as a reason to push her away."

"I know! I..." Hey, no. Kurt raised his chin. He'd already had this conversation. "The way I see it, she's the one pushing on _me_."

"Kurt-"

"She gave me a bible."

Tattle, tattle, teller of tales.

"Oh. Well. A bible. That's a bit..."

"Much?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I take it the gift wasn't well received?"

"She might as well have handed me a copy of _Mein Kampf_." Oops. Harsh, but accurate. And _not cynical._

Miss Pillsbury was shaking her head, a half-smile on her lips. "Kurt. Have you ever actually _read_ the bible?"

"Not really, no." He shrugged.

"I see," she said. With a _tone._

"To be fair," Kurt said. "I haven't read _Mein Kampf_ either. I'm sure it can't be all bad. After all, Hitler did manage to convince the German people to vote him into power. And he gave them the Volkswagen. Surprisingly robust and durable, for such an affordable car."

"Kurt!"

"Hm?"

He gave her his Kurt-in-the-classroom smile. All his teachers would have been able to recognize it.

"There's such a thing as taking it too far," she said.

"I'm very sorry, Miss Pillsbury." He wasn't, but he could fake it well enough. Well, no. He _could_ , but he wasn't doing that right now. Right now he was faking it very badly.

Miss Pillsbury exhaled, a small huff of disagreement, but she didn't say anything. Kurt pressed his lips together. So what if he hadn't read the bible? He still knew what was in there. Adam and Eve, a snake in the Paradise, tree of knowledge, Heaven and Hell, the devil and all his demons. Salvation and condemnation. Kurt knew the stories, how could he not? TV, movies, books, churches everywhere, all you had to do was to live in society and _voila_ , bible knowledge through osmosis.

Yes, he'd always done his best not to think about it, telling himself over and over to ignore it, ignore it, it was just a book, nobody cared. _He_ certainly didn't care.

Except the thing was... sometimes he did care.

There were only so many times you could hear a thing before it permanently stuck to your memory. And some things stuck exceptionally well. Kurt knew for instance what the bible had to say about gay people. He knew what kind of laws countries _got_ when they decided to obey the so called almighty god of the Bible (the god simply called God, which was a stupid, stupid name).

Kurt might be a little bit spoiled and a little bit sheltered, but he wasn't blind _._ He knew how lucky he was to have been born in the United States of America at the end of the twentieth century, with rights and freedoms and equality before the law. Not perfectly implemented by any means, but at least Kurt was able to trust that he wouldn't get taken to the edge of town and stoned to death.

With stones.

For real.

And _this_ is why he'd agreed to report Mr. Schuester to the school board, saying _this is neutral ground_. Saying _your God had no power here._ Kurt had been fighting to defend the Constitution.

Like a soldier.

Gah.

Alright, so maybe Kurt had been kind of... incorrect. Maybe Mr. Schue hadn't been doing anything wrong. Technically. Or, you know, at all. _Finn_ of all people had been the one who'd wanted everyone to sing about Jesus (and hadn't _that_ been awkward). Mr. Schue on the other hand had left the assignment pretty much open-ended, allowing for all kinds of interpretations. Right? Yes, no, maybe. The assignment still felt dodgy to Kurt, but he probably should have stopped and used his brain before going along with Coach Sylvester, all things considered. Silly feud considered.

Except. Except Kurt had thought about the silly feud. That hadn't slipped his mind. He'd known he was siding against Mr. Schue and the entire glee club. He'd known they would see it as a betrayal, and he'd still gone through with it. Because for a dark moment there, he hadn't cared.

Also, the school board had agreed with Kurt, let's not forget that little detail. Might turn out Kurt had been entirely justified. Or not. It was confusing.

Kurt glanced up to find Miss Pillsbury meeting his eyes, looking contrite.

"I'm sorry, Kurt," she said softly. "Please believe me. I never meant for this to turn into an argument. The truth is, religion is such a sensitive topic that no matter how you tread, you're bound to step on somebody's toes."

Kurt nodded. She got that right.

"All I want is to offer some kind of support. I have to confess, this whole situation..." She raised her hands, palms up. "I'm at something of a loss."

"You and several other people, Miss Pillsbury."

"But you know we're trying?"

"I guess."

"Then hopefully that should be enough."

"I'll keep telling myself that," he muttered.

She leaned forward, pinning him with gentle contemplation.

"What would you want us to do differently?"

Huh. Good question. Mercedes had asked something similar last night.

What did he want them to do differently? Kurt wasn't sure. He felt itchy just imagining it, and he found himself reverting back to the answer he'd given last night, even though it now struck him as not very satisfying.

"I asked for _one_ thing," he said. "I told them I didn't want their prayers. It didn't seem like too much to ask. Apparently I was wrong."

She rubbed her brow. "Yes. Yes, I can see how that might constitute another example of stepping on tender toes. You have to understand that prayer is an exceptionally personal thing. To them, such a request could be taken... well."

"Like a slap to the face?"

"Something like that." She tilted her head to the side. "I'm sure by now they understand that you appreciated, if not the offer itself, then the spirit in which the offer was given."

"Uh-huh."

Actually, she was right, underneath the unfairness of it all. Hadn't Kurt already determined that he should stay silent on the subject of religion as far as the glee club was concerned? Like, never remind them that he was an atheist ever again.

Oh no, that didn't sound stifling _at all._

"There you go," she smiled. "They're your friends. I'm sure they can understand you not being on your most gracious, considering what was going on at the time. If you want my advice...?" She paused, waiting for him to nod. "I suggest you refrain from bringing it up again. Let it blow over, things will get back to normal in no time."

"As long as I never, ever criticize their God," he said. Just to summarize.

"Come now, Kurt." She leaned back in her chair, frowning like she was starting to lose her patience with the whole thing. "Why would you do such a thing other than to provoke?"

"Maybe I just want to express my opinions."

She nodded. "That's absolutely understandable. But... be careful. I know you value the connections you've made. You should think very hard before you risk throwing it all away."

He swallowed. He'd thought much the same thing, but it was sobering to hear her confirm it. Yes. _Yes_ , it was that fragile. Easy come, easy go. One two three, he could lose all of his friends.

"You're right," he said. "You're right. It will blow over."

"I'm sure it will."

"Okay. I should go." He got up from the chair. "Thank you, for..."

A gesture towards her desk, indicating the grapes or the talk, he wasn't sure. He supposed he should be grateful for her showing that she cared, but for some reason he had a hard time feeling it.

"Any time, Kurt." She held up a hand like she was thinking about asking him to stay, but he was already on his way.

He gave her a brief smile, and left her office.


	10. Duet rehearsal

**Chapter 10**

Kurt stood alone in the corridor outside Miss Pillsbury's office. So this is what the school looked like after the morning bell had rung and everybody else was where they were supposed to be. It seemed small. Small and run-down, with discarded pamphlets on the floor. Not at all like a scene from a horror movie.

And then there were footsteps, definitely the sound of footsteps coming his way.

Kurt found himself standing as tall as he possibly could. Tall and nonchalant and strong, that was the... oh hey, it was just Puck. Mohawk, sneakers, red jacket, ratty jeans - Puck the slacker, late for class, who was surprised? No one.

"Hummel, you're here. Perfect." Puck sounded like he meant it. It was strange.

"Okay...?" Kurt arched a brow, cool and braced for insult. It wasn't that he was worried. It was just... well, Puck. Insults would come.

"Yeah." Puck shrugged. "Let's get the duet thing going. Don't suppose you have a song picked out already?"

"I might have." In fact, Kurt had several... vague ideas. He hadn't narrowed it down to a single one right this instant, but if he could get some time to think about it-

Puck held up a hand, a clear _stop_ signal. "I won't do anything that comes out of Broadway."

So that was off to a great start. "Fine," Kurt said, sullen. " _You_ pick something."

A self-satisfied smile, like Puck had been waiting for that one.

"What?" Kurt asked. This couldn't be good.

"I _did_ pick something," Puck said. "It's your favorite."

"Lady Gaga?" One could hope.

Puck just laughed and pushed past him to stalk towards the choir room. Kurt had to hurry to catch up. The door to the choir room was unlocked and the room was empty. Spooky, with silent instruments hanging on the walls. Kurt waited for Puck to take down a guitar and sit down on one of the chairs. Watched while the other boy started tuning the guitar - turning knobs and plucking chords with easy acquaintance. The capable musician side of Puck. Kurt didn't see it as often as one might think.

"What did you _pick_?"

"Don't bust a nut," Puck sniggered. Pluck, pause. Pluck.

"I will punch you," Kurt said, smiling out of irritation.

"Hang on." Puck played a chord, one note at a time, listening to the reverberation. Then, straightening, he pulled a folded up sheet of paper from his jeans pocket. "Got our song right here." He held out the paper, but before Kurt had the chance to grab it, Puck pulled it out of reach. "Okay," he said. "Before you look... don't make a fucking _thing_ out of this. I'm not trying to say anything, or whatever. It's not a message, it's just a fucking song."

"Got it," Kurt huffed. He snagged the piece of paper and unfolded it. Sure enough, he was looking at some lyrics. The title read, _Don't Sell me Short_. Kurt had never heard the song before. Or wait, he had. His heart sank.

"Is this Bad Religion?"

"Your favorite," Puck repeated with a smirk.

"We can't sing this _._ " Kurt wasn't sure what Puck was playing at, but it wasn't funny.

"Dude, I didn't think so either, but check it out."

Kurt just stood there, feeling jittery, while Puck played a minimal intro and began to sing. The melody was slow and somewhat folksy-sounding. About half the pace of the rapid-fire original.

 _"We don't need any more mountains  
because the trail builders  
failed to give us passage there  
so we can't reach the sky"_

 _"We don't need any more failure  
there is human tragedy  
that's written everywhere  
and we are all too young to die"_

It gradually dawned on Kurt that Puck wasn't trying to make some kind of stupid joke at his expense. He looked down at the lyrics, scanning them in advance. There didn't seem to be anything too bothersome in there. There was this one word in the second verse that _might_ be interpreted as being critical of religion, but no, it was fine. Bad Religion, in spite of its name, didn't usually make a point of complaining about God. Not that Kurt would know for sure. For the dozen or so Bad Religion songs that he sometimes listened to, there were many others that he hardly knew at all. He wasn't _really_ into punk, no matter what his shoes tried to say.

Still not a box.

But about this song that Puck was asking him to consider. Not one of Kurt's favorites, but it wasn't awful. The problem was... okay, it had some nice, poetic bits, but the refrain was just plain and personal and too straightforward, almost self-pitying the way it spelled it all out. Like what Puck was singing right now, staring off in the distance like he was making some grand statement to the entire world:

 _"Don't sell me short  
you've been wrong too long  
don't brush me off  
just because I don't belong"_

Not that Kurt disagreed with the accept-me-I'm-an-outcast message, it was just...

 _"I'm full of emotion  
and stuff you can't contain  
and you just want to  
flush me down the drain  
but you can't make me go away"_

Actually, never mind. Would you look at Puck? He'd cared enough to learn this by heart, and now he was singing as if it meant something. Which made sense. After years of detentions, of getting Fs on every other test, not to mention the fighting, the vandalism and the _impending incarceration._ Let's face it - Puck was something of a social reject (and he had the haircut to prove it). What kind of asshole would Kurt be if he denied him this opportunity to express himself?

He sat down to listen, and once Puck fell silent, Kurt gave a brief but enthusiastic applause. "That was great," he said, smiling. He clapped his hands together one more time, a let's-get-down-to-rehearsing clap. "Could we run through it together a couple of times, and then decide on how to divide the lyrics?"

Puck shrugged and bowed his head over the guitar, though Kurt could tell from his expression that he was pretty thrown by Kurt's unambiguous acceptance. Well, congrats, Puck. That's what you get for doing all the work, you get to... do the work. Kurt was grateful actually, that his duet partner had decided to be so helpful.

They sang together, Kurt familiarizing himself with the lyrics. It was weird at first, singing with Puck, but Kurt soon relaxed and even started to enjoy himself. Music could do that. It could make you focus on the moment and forget your worries, just for a while. It was nice.

"Dude. You almost sound like a guy."

And then Puck had to go ahead and remind him of the fact that he'd presided over more than half of Kurt's dumpster-tosses and generally made him feel like crap more times than Kurt liked to admit. There was this frozen moment of blankness, while Kurt was aware of making a choice. Should he let the memories of Puck-the-bully influence him or should he... not? The decision wasn't that hard. They were getting along, they were practicing a duet together. Puck was probably trying to be nice.

"If you say so," Kurt said, placid as you please. "Do you want me to try-?"

He sang a few lines in a higher register and they spent some surprisingly agreeable minutes trying out different harmonies with varying results. They fumbled through the lyrics, laughing between the mistakes.

"Hang on," Puck said, when Kurt hit on a variant that didn't sound half bad. "Try that again."

They sang together, _"Like a mystery that's here to stay, some people never go away."_

"Alright, let's keep that," Puck said. "But not too much of that fancy stuff. We got to keep it simple. I should start us off, and you could come in _here_ , and..."

Puck had grabbed the paper with the lyrics, making notes and underlining words, and Kurt was nodding along, despite the fact that he was watching his own artistic ideas being overridden one by one. But it was _fine_ , this was Puck's song, Kurt could afford to be generous. As long as Puck didn't mess up, in which case he would have no choice but to step in, obviously.

If they could keep up this pace, Kurt wouldn't even have to miss any more classes. French was already a lost cause, thanks to Miss Pillsbury, but he might be able to... Kurt looked at his watch. Next class was in ten minutes. He wouldn't be able to make it. He felt surprisingly okay about that.

Half an hour later, despite Kurt's best efforts, their amiable cooperation was officially falling apart. The problem was, Puck just didn't seem to understand what constituted a _duet_ , no matter how many times Kurt tried to explain it.

"We're _two people_ ," he said, annoyed, gesturing between them, back and forth with both hands. "We're talking to each other - agreeing, disagreeing, it doesn't matter. We're having a _conversation._ It's like that scene in _Rent,_ when-"

"Give it up, Hummel," Puck interrupted. "I already told you I wouldn't do any of that Broadway shit. You don't have to spread your fairy-dust over absolutely _everything_. No offense or what-the-fuck-ever."

Right. Broadway shit. Fairy-dust. Thanks for making that clear.

And _this_ was why he should have partnered with a _girl_ \- or maybe just anyone besides _Puck._ You know what? Fine. It was fine. If Puck wanted them to do the song without looking at each other, with little to no back and forth - minimal harmonization - basically singing as one person - Kurt could do that. If that's what it took to make Puck comfortable, then Kurt was fine. No skin off his nose.

"I give up," he said. "Never mind that this is a _duet_ competition. Let's give your way another try."

"Knew you'd recognize my genius."

"Yeah, that's what's happening here."

"Well-"

"Just play!"

"Dude. _What?_ " Puck glared at him with narrow eyes, his hand flat on the guitar strings.

"What do you mean, _what?_ You know what!"

"I know you're a whiny little bitch, that's what."

"Oh, that's nice. Well, this little bitch doesn't need to sit here and-"

Kurt leaned forward to get out of the chair, and Puck pushed him back again. Hard. It was altogether jarring.

"Great," Kurt said. He tried to keep his voice even, which wasn't easy since he appeared to be out of breath. "Random acts of violence. Should have known you'd revert back to form." He refrained from rubbing his sternum, where Puck had pushed him. What was it with- with _guys_ and pushing Kurt around? He was tired of it, tired-

"Don't be a sissy, I hardly touched you."

"Again, not surprised."

"I don't have a problem with you being gay."

Wow. Direct. And _not_ true. Kurt felt something within him pull together, sharp and brittle and likely to snap.

"Your history says otherwise," he said, looking at Puck as if from a great distance.

It was too bad. For a moment, it had almost seemed like this would work. But no. Boys didn't sing duets with Kurt Hummel, of course not. Boys averted their eyes so they wouldn't accidentally make eye-contact, their faces would get harsh with disgust if Kurt stepped too close or - God forbid - tried to strike up a friendly conversation.

"Fuck history!" Puck said. "I'm doing _this_ , aren't I?"

"Great. Singing with the fag. All the awards go to you." And no credit. Kurt felt sullen and petty and small.

"Dude, you have like, serious mental issues." Puck's voice was loud with impatience. "What do you want, a formal fucking apology? I'm _sorry_ , okay. For the whatever. Pushing you around, throwing stuff at your face. It doesn't matter anymore. Don't you get it? I'm on your side now."

 _I'm on your side now._

Oh. It... really? That was so nice, all of a sudden.

"You are?" Kurt sounded pathetically plaintive. He was just not very quick on the uptake. What was happening? Had Puck just apologized?

"Yeah," Puck said. His voice lowered. "Dude, come on. You're in here like, _all the time_. Don't you think I'm used to it by now? It's no big deal. Way I figure, you're kind of like a girl, except just in the head, not the rest of you. Well." A careful grin. " _Probably_ not the rest of you."

"I don't think that's how it works." Despite himself, Kurt felt uplifted. Puck was trying to be reassuring - and succeeding at it.

"Whatever. Girls like guys, you like guys, same diff. Doesn't bother me." Puck met his eyes, a calm statement. "You can be as gay as you want to be, it's none of my business. And if people give you crap, well," he lifted his eyebrows in a meaningful look, "that's what I'm here for, aren't I? Don't lose sight of who's the real enemy. Boss."

Kurt relaxed. Right, yes. Puck was still onboard with that. Good to know.

"And it doesn't have anything to do with you blackmailing me either," Puck said, glancing down at the guitar. He played a muted chord. "You shouldn't have to be afraid. It's not right."

"Oh. Okay."

 _Thank you._

Puck was right. David Karofsky, he was the real problem. Dragging Kurt _behind_ the dumpster, what the heck? That had been scary, there was no denying it. Kurt would rather not think about it, but he could almost feel Karofsky - could feel the massive arms around his chest, squeezing him close in a forceful embrace. Ew. Breathing on his cheek. Ew. Picking him up and carrying him behind the dumpster. That wasn't how dumpster tosses were supposed to work. And the new guys. Holding his legs, one foot each.

 _Take his pants._

They hadn't meant it, but that wasn't the way it was supposed to work either.

"Now that that's out of the way..." Puck scowled, mock severe. "Could we _please_ get rid of the Broadway stuff, and just go back to doing this the way we'd already decided? Because the first way kicked ass!"

Kurt smiled. "Sure," he said. "You got it."

They did a few practice runs, and Kurt was starting to warm up to Puck's method of doing the duet. It no longer felt incongruous, the united front combined with the us-against-the-world defiance in the lyrics. It was cathartic, in all its simplicity.

 _"Don't sell me short  
you've been wrong too long  
don't brush me off  
just because I don't belong"_

Kurt noticed how relaxed Puck appeared to be. He'd said he didn't have a problem, and Broadway aside, that seemed to be true. Even later, done with practicing, Puck was in no rush to leave. He was demonstrating his guitar skills with aimless riffs and improvisations, no hurry, just hanging out. Kurt imagined that to an invisible observer, that's what they'd look like. Two students, just two normal boys casually socializing in the music room. _Used_ to Kurt. Prolonged exposure - all it took to achieve enlightenment. Not bad for a former Neanderthal. Take that, McKinley high and all the small-minded idiots that said it couldn't be done.

Against all odds, Puck had picked the perfect song.

Except.

Okay. See. There was this small, nagging problem. Fly in the ointment, hoist in the petard. It hadn't gone away, this predicament with the second verse.

 _We don't need any more fables  
Because the writers have passed  
And left us lessonless  
And we must find our own way_

Yeah, that. When he'd first seen it, Kurt had managed to push it to the side, but now it was proving impossible to ignore. After his talk with Miss Pillsbury, there was no denying it would probably be the height of stupidity to sing that verse in front of the glee club. On the other hand, the phrasing was pretty ambivalent. It wasn't necessarily talking about the Bible. "Fable" could be referring to any old-

Oh, who was he kidding? It was so blatant, he might as well stand up and shout at the top of his lungs, _Your God is a fraud, your God is a fraud!_

No one liked that guy.

"Puck." Kurt sighed. "You believe in God, right?"

"I'm a Jew, so yeah. Why?" He didn't seem to mind the question, so that was good.

"Doesn't it bother you? That line about... fables? Or..."

Puck looked at Kurt as if he thought he was nuts. "Seriously? How sensitive do you think I am?"

That's true. Kurt ought to take it up with Mercedes. Or _Quinn._ Except he couldn't talk about it with either of them, that was the nature of the problem.

"Maybe we could do a bit of a rewrite," Kurt said. Of course, that was such a simple solution. He sang:

 _"We don't need any more lectures  
Because the teachers have passed  
And left us lessonless  
And we must find our own way"_

"I do like that," Puck said, sounding contemplative.

"I sort of assumed you would."

"Still... no. I don't think we should change it." He tapped a quick drumbeat on the side of the guitar. "The words are the words."

"Dude!" _Dude?_ Kurt had never used that expression before. Apparently, it was contagious. "You just said you liked it."

"Yeah, no. Can't sing about dead teachers, so middle school. Besides," he pointed at Kurt. "The first way's better. More symbolic and stuff."

"It's calling your precious God a _fable_." Not really, but Kurt wanted to drive it home.

"Jews are the ones who wrestle with God."

Kurt made a nasal sound of incredulity. What had happened to his class and elegance, nobody knew. Puck was a bad influence.

"It's something I heard in Temple once," Puck said. He seemed suddenly to be oddly... tall. Dignified, even. "Jews don't follow like sheep. We wrestle, we protest, we question everything. At least, that's the way it's supposed to be."

"O-okay. That makes sense, I guess." Kurt frowned. "And it's not like I don't... I mean, I can appreciate the divine as a metaphor, as a shorthand for the transcendent."

Puck snorted. "Fancy, fancy words, Hummel."

Kurt nodded. Shook his head. Yeah. He wasn't sure why he'd said that. It was part of a defense speech that he'd been thinking about for some time now. Because... well. He was a godless _atheist,_ alright? He wasn't blind to the unfortunate connotations: _Ungodly. Godforsaken_. It didn't sound very good, did it? Unlike _godly_ , which made you think _soulful, joyful, true_ \- everything nice tied up in a tangled little bow of nonsense and lies. Good equals God. It was a language thing. And while Kurt might not believe in a literal divinity, he still believed in _the divine_. That is, divine used as a metaphor for... beauty and such. It wasn't about being deceitful, it was about working with the language.

Oh great. How's that for a justification to run back into the freaking closet?

Puck's music turned thoughtful. Slow, random notes, like pebbles thrown in a pound.

"I just wish..." Kurt said. "I wish that's all there was to it. God, a great, big figure of speech." He thought about it, while Puck played some more random notes. "Actually, I'm pretty sure that's what happens. A lot. Someone say something about God, and there's no way to tell. Unless you ask. And people never ask." He was rambling.

Puck stopped playing. "Ask what?" An expectant look on his face.

Challenge. Accepted.

Kurt took a deep breath, choosing each word with care. "Do you _really_ believe that there exists - in reality - an almighty, invisible, supernatural _being_ , who watches you all the time and cares about what you do with your life? I mean, _really_?" Pause. "No offense or what-the-fuck-ever."

Puck gazed at him, silent, and Kurt had no idea what he was thinking. It was somewhat intimidating, but Kurt did his best to look unconcerned. So maybe he should have been more polite about it, but no, that idea hadn't really occurred to him. This was _Puck_. Puck didn't deserve excessive shows of courtesy. Besides, Puck had started it. Being rude to each other was their _thing_. Maybe.

"Yes," Puck said, slow and precise. "Since you ask, I do believe in an invisible being who exists in reality and cares what I do with my life. That would be God. I think he's really there, it's not just a fantasy."

"I..." Okay. "Thank you for that, I guess. But... can I ask you something else? You don't have to answer if you don't want to." He was attempting - belatedly - to be careful, not to step on sensitive toes.

"Dude!" Puck turned impatient. Which was fair. Politeness didn't feel right at all.

Kurt leaned forward. "Suppose sometime in the future you stopped believing in God... would you tell your parents?"

"My _mom._ My deadbeat dad's no longer in the picture." The guitar made a squeaky sound as Puck's fingers tightened on the strings. Oh. Yikes. _Here_ were the sensitive toes. "It's just me, my mom and my little sis. And Nana, of course." Pucks voice turned soft at the end.

"Oh. Okay. That's cool."

"Whatever." Puck rolled his eyes.

Kurt winced inside. That's _cool?_ Where had that inanity come from? Still, he persisted. "What would your _mom_ say if you told her that you no longer believed in the Jewish God?"

"I'd never do that to her," Puck said, no hesitation. "She's been through enough."

"So you wouldn't tell her." Interesting.

"Why would I ever stop believing?" He sounded dismissive, most of all. Like he knew it would never happen.

"I don't know," Kurt said. "Why would I ever start?" This was a strange conversation.

"Dude, no. You are. Not. A. Jew." Speaking as if Kurt was being deliberately slow.

"But why _aren't_ I?" Kurt asked. "I mean, if the Jewish religion is true, then shouldn't everybody be believing in it?"

Puck shook his head. "Doesn't work that way. You're either a Jew or you aren't. It's about inheritance. It's in your blood."

"All right," Kurt smiled as if that made perfect sense (it did and it didn't). "I'll be a Christian then, since that's my inheritance... I think."

Oh, he knew it was. He and his dad celebrated Christmas every year, with an angel on top of the tree and a nativity scene in the living room. As a kid, Kurt hadn't been allowed to play with it, but he'd sat and stared at the antique little figurines for hours, making up stories, and fourteen days after Christmas they'd wrap each piece in ancient tissue paper and carefully stack them in a box in the attic where they slumbered in tissue-laden comfort until next year. The shepherds and the kings and the little sheep. Mary and Joseph and the baby. The baby was missing a hand. Kurt knew every detail of the set.

His parent's wedding had been in a church, Kurt had seen the pictures many times. He even remembered, long ago, being inside that church himself, sitting in one of the pews. Next to his mom perhaps, the memory wasn't clear. But he remembered staring up at a large crucifix, suspended with chains from the high arches of the ceiling. A life-sized Jesus, his eyes closed, genuine iron nails driven through his wooden hands. He remembered pictures of people with robes and halos painted all over the church walls, and the priest had worn a purple frock with golden stitches on the sleeves.

His mom's funeral had been outdoors in a churchyard, crosses on the graves, and (this part might not be true) the priest had worn a purple frock with golden stitches on the sleeves. Kurt had visited the grave a few times after that, mostly with his dad, a few times alone. Well, one time alone. Overlooking the graveyard was the church, tall and impressive-looking, a white tree in a field of grave stone mushrooms. Kurt had never felt the need to walk inside.

"Christian inheritance," Puck scoffed.

"Sure, why not?" Kurt smiled, amused by the hypocrisy. "It's the same God!"

"No, it's not." An instant dismissal.

"Sure it is. Christian God, Jewish God, they're the same... person." Fictional character. "Muslim God too, still the same. Allah is just the Arabic word for God." A bit of basic religion education for you there, Puck. "Or are you suggesting that you have a different Abraham too, and a different Moses and a different Adam and Eve?"

"Don't know about that. But Jewish God didn't become human and die on a cross, that's for sure."

Kurt laughed. "How do you know? Couldn't he have done it if he'd wanted to? It's God! Can't he do absolutely anything he wants?"

Puck's fingers drummed on the guitar. Thud. Thud, thud, thud, thud. "What's with all the questions, Hummel?"

"I'm _interested._ Really, I want to know. I almost prayed this morning, to see if God would answer."

"Really." Very level, like he was calling Kurt on a lie.

"I'm not joking!" Well, it was a joke. Except not, since it had actually happened. It was odd. "I was sitting in my car, okay, and I was thinking _what if_. God could be out there - it's not _impossible._ And someone had _just_ told me that calling out for him might be all it took." He clasped his hands underneath his chin and stared up at the ceiling, trying to look pious. "What do you think?"

"I think you're being a bratty little smartass." Puck didn't seem annoyed - he sounded like being a bratty little smartass was something he approved of.

"Shut up," Kurt said. "I'm having a serious moment of inquiry over here."

"Nope, you're just trying to make me say that I'm believing in God for no good reason."

"I'm _trying_ to..." Kurt fell silent. Well, yeah. When it came right down to it. "Okay, fine. You're right, that's pretty much exactly what I'm trying to do." Puck was perceptive, who knew?

Puck was smiling, shaking his head. "If you're really looking for answers you shouldn't talk to me. Ask a Rabbi - or a priest, I guess. They've studied this shit all their lives."

"Uh-huh." Kurt tapped his cheek with his forefinger and smirked - a villain plotting evil deeds. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to talk to the experts, see what _amazing_ answers they have to give. You gotta know your enemy, all that." And now he was just being deliberately antagonistic. It was liberating, was what it was, and Puck was very good for letting him play along.

Puck leaned back and - of all things - _winked_. "Wrestling with God, Hummel? Maybe one of your ancestors was a Jew."

Kurt grinned, honestly delighted. "I'm taking that as a compliment."

"Oh, it is."

"I still prefer being a godless heathen." Yeah. He should just own it.

"Don't let me stop you."

"I'm really not."

Puck nodded, pleased, like he thought everything was nice and settled.

"All that being said..." Kurt frowned. His mood sank like a stone. "We should just skip the second verse."

A derisive huff. "Seriously? You're such a spineless little weasel!"

"Hey!" Kurt said. "I'm being _considerate._ Look, everyone already knows that I think it's a fable. I don't need to rub it in."

"You're not rubbing it in. It's a fucking song, nobody will care."

"Mercedes will care."

"So?"

"So. I care about her. I don't want to hurt her feelings." How was that hard to understand?

"Yeah. I got your number, Lady boy."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you're whipped. You're so afraid of losing her favor, you never say shit. You let her walk all over you."

"That's stupid." If that's what Puck thought, he'd never seen him and Mercedes have a disagreement about fashion. "Think about it! Would it _really_ be a good idea to call her God a fable, even if it's just a song?"

"I think she can take it."

"I don't want her to 'take it'. I say we skip the verse. Do it, do it, do it, or you're on your own. I'm serious." He was.

"Whipped."

"Fine, I'm whipped, call it what you want. Bottom line, I do _not_ want to force her to choose between me and her God. That would not end well for me."

Puck paused, looking pensive. Something about that had actually hit home. "Alright," he said, voice low. "So we won't do the second verse."

"Thank you."

It didn't feel much like a victory, but there you go. Such was life. It was all about compromises, and Kurt was _awesome_ at compromises. He made them all the time, he shouldn't feel ashamed to do it again. He shouldn't have to feel like he was letting Puck down either, except he did and he was. Dammit. He didn't like this, didn't like it at all. Should he take it back? No, he couldn't. It was too blatant. And he was _not_ being a spineless little weasel.

They sat in oppressive silence.

 _Bang!_

Kurt nearly fell out of his chair when the door crashed open. Finn and Rachel walked inside, hand in hand, talking to each other. They didn't even notice that they weren't alone, but then Finn caught sight of Kurt and Puck sitting there frozen in their chairs. He tugged at Rachel's hand, pulling her closer to his body. She fell silent, blinking with large eyes.

"Hi," Finn said. "What's going on?" Glancing back and forth between Puck and Kurt like he was trying to figure it out.

"Practicing," Puck said. He plucked a single note on the guitar as if to demonstrate.

"For the duets? You're not doing them together, are you?" A huff of a laugh, like it was a joke.

And hey, insulting.

"We are," Kurt said, coolly.

"No way," Finn said. He paused, looking perplexed. "What if you win? You'll have to go on a date."

"It's a free dinner," Puck said. "Won't be a date."

"Finn." Rachel pulled at his shirt, her voice brisk and piercing. "Stop being rude."

"I'm being rude? Sorry, it won't happen again." Though he didn't sound like he thought he'd been doing anything wrong.

Kurt rubbed at his own neck, not meeting anyone's eyes. Well. Maybe it did look kind of strange, him and Puck. Duets were so often supposed to be romantic. Would the rest of the glee club think so too? No. No way, it was just Finn making things up in his head.

"Rachel thinks we should lose," Finn said, changing the subject.

There was a confused silence.

"What do you mean?" Kurt asked. Very patiently, he thought.

He _should_ be patient with Finn. Finn meant well, Kurt did know that. He just had to keep reminding himself that Finn... okay, not to sound mean or anything, but Finn had a lot of growing up to do. The trick was to treat him with as much kindness and patience as Kurt could muster. And try not to get too hung up on the past. Second chances, new bridges, slate clean. All that. If their parents got married, they would be brothers. He'd better get used to that idea.

"We should sing an awful song, let the new guy win."

"Finn!" Rachel said. She smiled at Kurt and Puck. "I don't know what he's talking about."

"Please," Puck said. "If you want that Bieber kid to win, just vote for him. Doesn't matter how good your number is, everybody will vote for themselves anyway."

The voice of reason. Kurt didn't bother to hide his grin at the stunned looks on Finn and Rachel's faces. It was beautiful.

"You're quite right," Rachel said, quickly regaining her composure. "Thank you, Noah. I'm glad you pointed that out."

"Me too," Finn said, with feeling. "That priest costume made me feel kind of icky."

"Priest costume?" Kurt asked. Had he heard that right?

"Nothing," Finn and Rachel answered together.

Finn in a priest costume. Yes, thank you. If there were any last remnants left of Kurt's infatuation, that would probably take care of it.

"Kurt," Rachel said, breathless and staring, as if a terrible thought had just struck her. "Did you skip math?"

"I guess." Kurt shrugged, secretly imitating Puck. Yes, he'd skipped math. So what?

"You can't just..." Rachel sounded appalled. "I thought you knew how important your education is. If you want to achieve your dreams, you can't skip classes!"

"I know, Rachel." He even agreed with her, on principle, but it was _one_ class. This morning he'd considered skipping the whole day. He was owed some time off.

"I understand the bad boy appeal," she indicated Puck with her chin, "but, Kurt, you can't let him sway you."

Like Puck wasn't sitting right there, hearing everything she said. That's Rachel for you.

"No?" Puck said, smiling proudly (of course). "But I'm so very appealing." He struck a silly pose, which nonetheless did a god job at showing off his appeals.

Kurt chuckled, and, humoring Puck, he tilted his head to the side, pretending to ogle. Or, kind-of-sort-of, you know... ogling for real. It was a _fine line_. Puck flexed his arms and turned his head to the side to show off a haughty profile. They managed to keep up the charade for about two more seconds, before they broke down laughing. Kurt hid his face behind his hand, blushing and laughing at the same time.

"This is so weird!" Rachel exclaimed. She was laughing as well. "Since when are you two friends?"

Friends? Was that...? Kurt didn't know. He wasn't sure if Puck would necessarily agree to-

"Since Monday night," Puck said, a relaxed declaration.

Huh. Monday night? When his TV had been stolen, that Monday night.

"We had a bit of a falling out since then," Kurt said, his voice mild.

"But then we made sweet, sweet music together and all's forgotten."

"Fine," Kurt agreed, sighing. "It's forgotten. But remember that you still owe me."

"I most certainly do." Puck waggled his eyebrows.

Yeah. Kurt had the distinct impression that Puck was doing all this for Finn's benefit, that he was _defending_ Kurt in his own Puck-typical way. It was heady, gratifying, and impossible not to play along.

See, Finn, see. Witness some harmless boy-boy flirting. No freak outs!

Puck was _used_ to him. It was funny how secure Kurt felt about that.

"What do you mean, Monday night?" Finn asked, sounding somewhere between skeptical and alarmed. "You went to his _house_?"

"Sure," Puck said. He tilted his head to the side, looking puzzled. "I figured it was my turn. Don't tell me you never did. Some friend you are."

That was some first class deflection, right there. Kurt might have taken a moment to admire it, except it left a bitter taste in his mouth. No one. Zero. Zero was the number of glee members who'd visited Kurt after his dad's heart attack. Not that he'd expected them to. They'd shown their concern at school, he'd gotten hugs from some of the girls, and Britt had given him a card (poor, crying Britt, oh no. He had to talk to her as soon as possible). In any case, he hadn't asked anyone to visit him at his house, the idea probably hadn't even occurred to them. Except for Mercedes. It was different with Mercedes, but never _mind_.

Rachel made a soft sound, like a sad kitten.

"Hey," Finn said, defensive. "My mom visited. She brought food."

Carole had done that, yes. Finn hadn't come along, but then he wouldn't. Finn hadn't sat foot at the house since that time when he and Carole had moved in, and Finn and Kurt had shared a room. That had not ended well. Kurt might have been crying, his dad might have kicked Finn out, something like that. No one had really mentioned it since. And yet his dad and Carole were still dating. It was less than ideal. Kurt would definitely have to do something to resolve the situation, starting with reconciling with Finn and ending with making his dad reconcile with Finn. Yeah. He should get right on that.

"So you're actually gonna do the duet...?" Finn was not letting this go.

Kurt really wished he would.

"Why not?" Puck said, blinking like he really couldn't see a reason why they shouldn't. "Kurt's a decent singer."

Puck kept coming to his defense. Surreal. And notice the "Kurt" rather than "Hummel". Finn's handsome face was uncharacteristically hard, and Puck was glaring back, fake innocence gone without a trace. Kurt exchanged a tentative look with Rachel, both of them noting the tension in the room. There was a lot of history here. Finn and Puck had used to be really close, always to be seen together, and then that thing with Quinn had happened. The baby had happened. Some days their friendship seemed to have recovered, other days not so much.

"A duet doesn't have to be a love song," Kurt said, since enough was enough, and it was high time to put an end to this. "We're not going to do anything that we wouldn't do in front of your grandparents."

It wasn't like he couldn't see where Finn was coming from, more's the pity. There was plenty of blame to go around. Except this time Kurt really, well and truly hadn't done anything wrong. Damn it. Maybe if he clarified the Broadway ban, Finn would ease up on his (ill-founded, unwelcome) concerns.

"Kurt, can I talk to you? Alone." An ungainly request. Finn still hadn't taken his eyes off Puck.

"Not if you're going to tell me who I should or shouldn't sing with, you can't." Kurt made no move to get out of his chair.

"Finn?" Rachel was frowning. "What's going on?" Her voice dark with suspicion.

Finn spun to face Rachel, his hands in the air. "No! It's not about that!" He turned to Kurt. "It's not that. It's about... other things. Our parents. Your dad, my mom."

Yeah. Kurt wrinkled his nose. He wasn't buying it. He found himself angry. Just... angry. Hard as it was to fathom, Finn - _Finn_ \- actually seemed to think he had some right to keep interfering in - in...

You know what? Bring it.

Bring it.

Whatever Finn wanted him to hear, whatever unconsidered big brotherly advice he felt compelled to partake, Kurt would listen patiently. He would give Finn the benefit of the doubt. And then he would grind him into the dust. Kurt was on a roll here. He'd stood up to Puck, he could do the same with Finn.

Yeah!

Kurt jumped out of the chair and grabbed his bag.

"Okay," he said. "Puck, thank you for the song. Rachel, lovely to see you. Finn, lead the way. Let's hear what you want to say."


	11. Cliché

**Chapter 11**

Kurt followed Finn out through the back of the school, and then kept up a silent march until they were standing all the way over by the football field, not far from the empty bleachers. Kurt told himself that it was Finn's familiarity with the place that made him choose it, not just the fact that they were out of sight from all prying eyes.

Oh, who was he kidding? Welcome to the life of a social leper.

"This had better be good," Kurt said, with much more spite than he'd intended. He'd meant to be patient, but he seemed to have lost that somewhere between the music room and football field.

What in the hell did Finn _want_ from him?

Finn took a step back, his hands raised. His expression was pained, almost sad. "Could you please not be like this. I know you don't think we're really a, a _family_ , and I know I didn't handle it well. The heart attack, I mean. I went a bit... nuts. But I was scared too, and I just didn't know what to do. I know Burt isn't really my father, but it's fine now, right? You can start talking to me again?"

Huh? Kurt crooked his head to the side. Talk to Finn again? He wasn't aware that he'd stopped.

"I wanted to come with mom when she brought you the food," Finn said. "I just didn't think you would've wanted me to. You seemed to want to be alone."

"Alright," Kurt said slowly. It was strange to hear that Finn had been thinking about how _Kurt_ had behaved, while last week Kurt had barely noticed Finn at all. He did remember Finn making some motions toward comfort, but that was hardly the time, was it? Kurt could hardly be expected to deal with all _that_ right then.

But Kurt gazed up at Finn, at his honest, open face, and he felt himself relent.

"You're right. I guess I've been kind of... closed off." Since it was Finn, he should probably spell it out. Even though it sucked. "It hasn't been easy for me. None of it has. I wasn't up for dealing with... anything, really. Sorry."

Was he apologizing? He shouldn't be apologizing. And why would Finn even _want_ him to... want him? No way. That wouldn't last. Death did strange things to peoples' heads, even if no one had actually died.

Finn had a half-smiling, concerned look, and he shifted uneasily in his feet, way too tall, with long arms and big hands. Kurt had the weirdest feeling that Finn was holding himself back from giving him a hug. Oh yeah, wouldn't that be a sight? But it seemed Finn wasn't going to say anything along the lines of who Kurt should or shouldn't sing with. That was a nice development.

Kurt gave Finn a hesitant smile. It felt unpracticed and new.

He was a family of two. It was ingrained.

"But anyway," Finn said. "There's something I wanted to talk about."

"Ye-es," Kurt smiled. That _was_ the point of this whole rigmarole.

Finn didn't smile back. He seemed grave, like he needed Kurt to listen. Complying, Kurt crossed his arms and put on a listening pose.

"Okay, here's the thing. I don't think you should do the duet with Puck." Finn winced, like he was well aware that Kurt didn't want to hear it, but pressed on. "You know how the rumors work! Everybody on the football team will know - they always do. They'll never let him live it down."

"Ouch," Kurt said, very clearly. He clutched at his heart - a theatrical display of hurt to convey the actual counterpart. Because, wow. Way to come down on him _after_ he'd gotten all friendly-disposed and confused. But by all means, pick a fight, Kurt could do that, that's what he'd been expecting after all.

"Don't be mad," Finn said, his hands making soothing motions. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Just... trust me. I know what I'm talking about. I'm trying to help."

"Who are you trying to help, Finn?" Fake patience. Kurt recognized the tone in his own voice - he'd heard it many times. On the whole, he was rather pleased with the effect. Fake patience beat Neanderthalism any day.

"Were you really...? I mean, with Puck? I'm not sure, but..." Finn was stammering, talking in fits and starts. And not making much sense. It occurred to Kurt that it was all from nervousness. This wasn't easy for Finn.

Well, tough luck.

"What about Puck, Finn?"

"You were flirting!"

"Finn." A warning.

"I saw it. And you might think it's a joke, and Puck might think it's a joke, but everyone will know."

Kurt rubbed his brow, keeping his annoyance at bay. He wasn't about to deny it. He'd done nothing wrong. And he hadn't _really_ been... ack. Flirting. With Puck. But that was hardly the point, was it?

" _Maybe,_ " he said, drawing the word out. " _Maybe_ we were just having some harmless fun. _Maybe_ it was refreshing to talk to somebody who doesn't freak out just because I gave them the slightest bit of attention."

"It wasn't just a slight bit!" Finn lowered his voice. "It never was."

Kurt looked to the side. Crap. "I wasn't talking about you."

"Yes, you were." Finn sounded angry. "And anyone would have freaked in my place. You went too far. You have to learn that no means no!"

No. Means. No.

Kurt turned back to Finn, mouth open, not sure how to respond. That was just cruel. Hurtful. And wildly inaccurate. For all of Kurt's admittedly inappropriate pursuit of Finn, he hadn't pushed - touched - hadn't even _tried._ Not like that. It had never been like that. He'd liked to be around Finn, it had made him feel pleasantly warm and safe, all smile-y and relax-y. It had been very, very PG. Even his fantasies, such as they were, had never gone past - past - handholding - chasteness - freaking _flowers_.

"Finn..." It came out in a low growl, chest and baritone.

"I'm sorry," Finn said. "I just meant that they could _tell_. It wasn't like you were trying to hide. Always looking at me, being all..."

"I get it," Kurt snapped. Too much smiling, check.

"And it was _weird_ sleeping in your room, because you never stopped _looking_."

"Thank you, Finn. You've already made that abundantly clear."

Kurt felt... puzzled, underneath it all. Because Finn - well - Finn had been apologizing for that for _a while_. And he'd stopped blaming Kurt almost immediately after the incident. Kurt had honestly thought they'd started to move past it by now.

"And just so you know," Finn said. "I told my mom, and she probably talked to your dad about it too."

Oh. No. It was dread, enough to make him gasp.

"What did you tell your mom, Finn?"

Help. Somebody save him.

"I told her about how it wasn't just my fault what happened. I get how it looked from your dad's point of view, but dude, he didn't have the whole picture."

"That's true," Kurt said. "All he had was the part where you called me a fag."

Finn shook his head, his face stark with disagreement. "Your _things_. Your _room._ Not _you._ I never called you that. I'm not saying it wasn't bad, but I said I'm sorry, and I meant it. I'm sorry. I'll never say it again."

Yes, yes, Finn meant it. He was sorry, he regretted it, yadda, yadda, heard it. Kurt had already been thoroughly convinced.

"Alright. Alright, Finn. I appreciate that."

"I get that it's a bad word," Finn continued. "I just didn't think that it was _that_ bad. I mean, people call you that all the time, but you just call them Neanderthals and make fun of their hair. It never seemed to bother you before."

"Ah. But those people weren't you. And they weren't in my house, or in the supposed safety of my own room." Kurt spoke mildly. He wasn't about to let Finn get away with that. And really - just because Kurt knew how to ignore those things didn't mean that they didn't bother him. Occasionally. That it didn't _occasionally_ bothered him.

"Dude-"

"And my dad wasn't there."

Ah. That - that might actually have been the worst part. That his dad was there. That his dad had heard it. His dad should never have to hear it.

What had Carole told him, what did he think he knew, what did he think of Kurt? Oh God.

"Don't act like it was all _my_ fault!" Finn, at his most defensive.

So no, Finn was pretty much innocent. _Kurt_ had been the one who'd... misjudged. He'd trusted Finn, felt safe with Finn, and because of that he'd done what he'd done. Eventually it had come to a head. It was predictable, inevitable even. It was just bad luck that Kurt's dad had happened to be standing in the door. In hindsight, Kurt had to acknowledge that his dad's reaction had been a bit out of proportion. Maybe if it had just been him and Finn, they might have been able to take care of it on their own. Talked it through, sorted it out. Maybe not well, but probably without kicking Finn out of the house.

Though Kurt wouldn't swear by it, wouldn't swear by it at all.

He'd trusted somebody when maybe he shouldn't have.

Damn his life.

And damn Finn for making him see it.

"I saved you from Azimio and Karofsky!" Finn said, like he'd just thought of it. "The day after. Remember? They were going to beat you up."

"I remember," Kurt spat out. His face felt stiff. He took a deep breath, tried to calm down. "I get that that makes up for a lot." It did. Not to mention the _dress_ Finn had been wearing, the red Gaga dress, all plastic and puffy sleeves. As grand gestures of apology went, that one was pretty much up there.

They stood silent for a while.

When Finn spoke again, it was with the air of getting back to the point. "You have no idea how people talked, what they said to me. About you and me."

"Right. I have no idea. How could I?" Idiot.

Tall, stupid, moronic idiot.

"But you're doing it again," Finn pressed. "Except with Puck this time. Please, just listen to me, because I don't think you get it."

Oh, Kurt got it alright. He shouldn't be singing with Puck, he probably shouldn't even _look_ at Puck. Or the world might break. And oh yeah, everything was Kurt's fault.

Ridiculous.

And Puck, of all people. Over one glee assignment and two seconds of flirting _._ Kurt closed his eyes, some measure of real patience coming back to him with the ridiculousness of it all.

"We're talking about Puck," he said, smiling slightly. "Remember Puck? He can take care of himself. He doesn't need you to protect him from me."

Inexplicably, that only made Finn look more worried. "I just think you should be careful."

"Careful with Puck? With Puck."

"Yes! He doesn't deserve the amount of shit he'll get if you keep this up."

"Alright. Finn, listen." Kurt rubbed at his forehead. He wasn't getting a headache, but he felt justified to act as if this conversation was giving him one. "You know how Rachel sometimes has to explain things to you?"

A pause. "Yeah?" Finn sounded wary.

"Since she's not here, I'll say this in her stead. Finn. You're being a homophobic jerk."

"No, I'm not."

Finn - for once - seemed absolutely certain about that. No downturned eyes and shameful expression. For once. Huh. It might be possible that Kurt had told him that one too many times in the recent past.

"Fine," Kurt said. "It's still not okay to talk to me like this. It's not okay to try to prevent me from being friends with another guy, or to sing a duet with another guy. It just isn't. I know you know that."

"I'm trying to help!"

"And you're failing at it. Besides, Puck doesn't have a problem singing with me, and if he did he'd have no qualms telling me himself. _You're_ the one with the problem here."

"No, I'm not. You really think I have a problem with... with you? I don't. It's the rest of the school that's got a problem."

"It's a _song_ , not a marriage ceremony. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty sure Puck's sterling reputation as a voracious womanizer can withstand the tarnish of one song."

"It's not funny," Finn said, frowning. "You said he was your friend. Aren't you at least a little bit worried?"

"About Puck? Puck."

"Why do you keep saying his name like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like he doesn't matter!"

Kurt drew a breath, took a step back. No. No, Finn wasn't allowed to... That's not what this was _about._

Finn followed, one step closer, lowered his voice. "Listen, I _know_. I... When it happened to me, alright? People started thinking _I_ might be gay, and that was all that mattered to them suddenly. They said things - trashed my jacket. Wouldn't even listen to me. It was like everything I'd done before had disappeared. Like _I_ disappeared. I felt like I wasn't even _me_ anymore."

Memories of old hurt on Finn's face, and Kurt had to admit he...

"I didn't realize you'd get it so-"

Not _Finn_. Kurt shook his head, not seeing it, not really. Finn had had a girlfriend, he'd had Quinn. He'd been the captain of the football team. Untouchable. People wouldn't - well. Well. Of course _some_ people on the football team - of course. Male game posturing, locker room shoves. Kurt already knew that. Although, that was hardly _everybody_. Hardly the whole school.

Still. Kurt might have given a little more consideration to the consequences. But then, _Finn_ had been the one who... even before glee club, Finn had tended to go out of his way to be kind to Kurt. Holding his coat, helping him up off the floor, the occasional pat on the back. Little gestures of regard. That was Finn. Being nice. At his own peril. Which is what had made Finn so brave in the first place. Because being nice to Kurt was apparently social suicide. Because being nice to the gay kid would have him yipping after you like a starved dog.

Kurt felt... he wanted to sit down. This was way harsh. And Finn was probably nice to everybody - that was his way. It hadn't even been personal, the way he'd cared for Kurt.

Yip, yip.

Finn took a deep breath. "I've been thinking about it a lot, and I know I should have said something much sooner." He reached out, gave Kurt's arm a small, supportive tap. He spoke gently. "I knew you were like, interested in me back then, but I didn't say anything. Remember when our names were drawn from the hat and we were paired off to do songs for each other? That's when I knew for sure."

Finn had figured it out. Funny. Kurt had agonized so much about how to tell him back then, left hints all over the place and never realized that Finn had seen the clues and purposefully left them untouched.

"I should have said something," Finn repeated. "But I kept thinking it would stop on its own if I ignored it. It didn't seem like a big deal. But I should have said something _before_ it became a big deal. I should have been nice about it too, since you're a cool dude. I think you're really cool, did I say that? But I kept thinking, what if I did say something and that only made it worse. I didn't want us to fight, and I could have hurt your feelings, and I didn't know how to say it. It was hard! But I should have tried to tell you, shouldn't I?" Finn shot Kurt an imploring look, almost begging him to tell him that he'd gotten it right, that Kurt understood.

"Yes," Kurt said. His lips felt pale. "Yes. You should have said something. That would have helped, yes." Yes. Either way, it would never have ended well. That was the way it was. Hopeless.

Maybe when Kurt started college, he'd get his first kiss from a boy.

"Yeah," Finn smiled. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything. But I can make up for it now, or at least I'm trying to. And I get that you're like, like a martyr. Like with the Gaga dress. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn't listen. And Puck's kind of... he'll see it as a challenge. But he doesn't understand what you're making him do."

Making him do. What you're making him do.

Like. Hell.

"It's not a _scheme,_ Finn. I'm not trying to make some kind of great, big _statement_."

He wasn't. It was just this typical messed-up thing, where every little detail about him would end up being plucked apart and misinterpreted by _imbeciles_. (Like his boots, his very punk Doc Marten boots that in no way resembled _stripper boots._ No way on Earth. Don't expect him to take such things into account, nothing would make sense anymore, shut up, the end).

"I know it's unfair," Finn said. "But it's the real world. Do you think you can change the real world by pretending it doesn't exist?"

"I'm not ignoring it. I know what's out there."

"Just... will you do the duet with somebody else?"

" _No_."

"Couldn't you at least-"

"You're being awfully inconvenient, Finn." Kurt's voice was strident and sharp. "Did it even cross your mind that the rest of you are paired off already? Puck and I got each other by default. We've picked out a song, and we're ready to perform during glee this afternoon. And now suddenly you think we should switch because there's a possibility that other people might talk? Does that seem even remotely fair to you?"

No answer, except for a stubborn, sullen silence. Of course. Finn knew he wasn't being fair. He'd already said that.

"Who else would you suggest I sing with?" Kurt said, to drive it home.

Finn straightened, suddenly hopeful and take-charge. "We'll figure something out. Maybe you and Rachel-"

" _No_."

"Kurt! I'm trying to fix this."

"No. Screw you, _no._ " All out of patience. "I make my own choices, Puck makes his own choices. I understand you're looking out for him, but what about me? Am I nothing to you? Am I still..." He hesitated, and then just went ahead and said it. "Garbage. Am I still something for you to throw in the trash."

Low blow, low blow, this was making him low.

"Come on," Finn said. He smiled briefly, and then he just looked stricken. "You know I don't think-"

Nuh-huh. No. Kurt so didn't need this.

"What's so bad about it, really?" He didn't like the note of hysteria that had crept into his voice. "What's so terrible about me looking at another guy, even hitting on another guy? Why should it always be me who has to hide?"

"Hah!" An unamused bark of a laugh. "You _never_ hide. You're incapable of hiding!"

"But you think I should?"

"Everybody does it!" An exasperated near-shout. "It's what you're supposed to do. You're not supposed to push your desires on other people. People don't want it."

"I told you I'm sorry!"

"No! You never did." Such hurt, righteous anger from Finn.

"Oh," Kurt said. "Oh, I _didn't_? Then I'm _sorry_. I'm _sorry_ I cared about you, I'm _sorry_ I wanted you to be my boyfriend. Please forgive me for pushing my desires on you. I should have just kept it to myself."

Perspective. One day this would be a distant memory, high school drama, water, bridge, something like that. Years from now, they would be home for Christmas, Finn older and wiser and Kurt next to his _real_ boyfriend - his husband, even - they'd sit around the dinner table - and children! - and they'd look back at this and laugh. They would. Not right now, though. Right now it was tearing Kurt apart.

"Don't pretend you weren't out of control," Finn said. "You got our parents together just so you could get closer to me."

That... that was supposed to remain _unmentioned._ In the past, forgotten, never talked about.

"That was more like a long shot," Kurt got out, faltering. His throat was tight. "Never thought it would actually turn out that way."

Let's face it: last year, Kurt might have been a tiny little bit... megalomaniacal. Who could blame him, really? All his dreams were coming true. Glee, cheerleading, adulation, best friend on his arm every day, no more eating lunch by himself. Who could blame him for reaching for more? So when he'd seen Finn's single mom in the same room as his dad, it had seemed like the perfect opportunity. Simple. Like, why not? Go for it, Johnny my boy. All that jazz.

Finn was shaking his head, less angry now, more disbelieving and sad. "You can't treat other people like that. We're not toys. I know you think you're better than everybody else, but you can't _do_ that."

"I don't think I'm better than everybody else," Kurt said. He knew he wasn't. Not... technically.

"Right," Finn said. "That's why you keep calling people Neanderthals. Because you don't think you're better than them."

Oh, _them._ Never mind.

"I only call them Neanderthals when they push me around and call me names."

Trip him, slap the back of his head, throw garbage on him, cold drinks, warm piss, dirty glares, dirty words, dirty deeds, making him feel dirty all the way down. Don't ask him to care.

"Maybe they would lay off if you stopped calling them names, ever think about that?"

Kurt blinked, his vision shimmering with unexpected tears. Oh, but Finn didn't get it. For all his talk about the real world, he had no idea.

"It's not like that," Kurt said. "Don't you think I've tried? I've been keeping my head down, I've been _mild as milk_ , but that doesn't help! It never has. I'm- I'm the only out gay kid in our school, did you know that, Finn? The only one. Don't act like I asked for it when everybody else, and I mean _everybody,_ is hiding. And for good reasons. There are lots of people that hate us. They hate that we exist. People I never even talked to want me dead, do you get that? They want me d-dead."

His voice broke as it stuck him, all at once, the very specific horror of it. That there was a fine line. A cookie-cutter super-cuts tightrope line to fit the model of _decent_ , and Kurt never could pull it off. Too _confused_ , they'd say. Might have to get rid of him, they'd say. A crime against nature, a low-down criminal not to be trusted, never. And one of these days he'd find himself beaten bloody, and it wouldn't be a surprise, he wouldn't even be surprised.

He shouldn't have to be afraid, but he was, all the time, afraid.

"Come on," Finn said, sounding helpless. "Take it easy, don't talk like that. Nobody wants you dead."

Deep breath, staring up at the sky. Kurt didn't mean to, didn't want to, but a few tears escaped and ran down his face and down his throat. Damp down the neckline of his sweater. Drama queen. Playing the victim. Finn's palm was between his shoulder blades. Warm even through the jacket, just resting there.

"Why do you do it?" Finn asked, his voice low.

"Do what?" Kurt sniffed, leaning back on Finn's hand and leaning away from it. Both at once.

"The clothes, the... everything." Finn took his hand away - loss - to gesture at Kurt's whole person, from his hair down to his boots.

"It's who I am." What else, what else? It was the best part of him.

"Is it?" Finn shook his head. "Who says you have to act a certain way or dress a certain way? You're like a walking... like what Rachel called Quinn that one time... a cliché! You're a cliché, Kurt."

No, he wasn't.

"I just meant," Finn said, beseeching. "You're not your clothes."

"I know that." A toneless statement.

"You're more than that."

"Stop talking."

"What?"

"I'm tired. I don't sleep well. The house is too empty."

"I'm sorry."

Kurt backed away, nearly stumbling over his own feet. "It's okay," he told Finn. Smiling. He felt unreal, like in a dream. "If you think Puck shouldn't be singing with me, you have my permission to talk to him. It's okay. I'm not going to put up a fuss if he'd rather have somebody else."

"Kurt. Could you just... wait. I didn't want to make a big deal out of this."

"Then don't."

"We could-"

"Then _don't_!"

A scream that hurt his throat. Oh, but he was losing it. So attractive. As in, not. He couldn't be dealing with this right now, he'd had enough, no. In a burst of self-preservation, Kurt turned around and stalked back towards the school building, hands clenched and reeling inside. Leaving Finn alone by the bleachers.


	12. Speaking up

**Chapter 12**

Kurt's first impulse after his talk with Finn was to get away. His second impulse, once he'd entered the school building, was that he wanted Mercedes. Just that... it would be nice if she was there. But take it easy, it was just as well that she wasn't. She'd hug him or something, and right now her arms around him would only make him fall apart.

Look at him, his legs were shaking.

Kurt slowed down, coming to a gradual standstill. He stepped to the side to get out of the way of passing students and leaned his back against the wall. Did his best too look like he wasn't having some kind of personal crisis. Along the opposite wall was a row of windows, shining golden light in his face. He had to squint his eyes.

A trio of freshmen kids was talking close by, a mellow, soothing conversation that seemed totally cut off from the bustle around them. Gentle laughter, still and pleasant. Kurt noticed that all the students around him were younger than he'd first assumed. He hardly recognized anyone at all. Huh. That's what he got for skipping classes - he got to feel like a stranger at his own school, tetherless and alone.

He wondered if Puck and Rachel were still in the music room where he'd left them.

He wondered if he should stay away from Puck from now on - and then he wanted to slap himself for letting Finn get to him like that. Get through to him like that. No. That wasn't right. He didn't even know anymore, and, and okay, that was _some_ talk he'd had with his maybe step brother. He was all shaken up.

Bright side. Kurt smiled grimly. At least Finn no longer seemed to operate under the impression that Kurt was still hung up on him. No, no, according to Finn, Kurt had moved on. Moved on to darker, more tread-upon pathways. Snark. Puck. Right.

Puck who was undeniably good looking with his striking face, incredible body, all that. But no, just no. Kurt could hardly look Puck in the eyes, and that was the truth. Too much baggage, too much to let go all at once. Although, if Puck continued to surprise him... well, he might stop being surprised. He might even start to accept Puck as a decent human being, someone who _wasn't_ likely to end up in the prison system. Wouldn't that be a lark?

In a way, Kurt couldn't blame Finn for jumping to conclusions. To be honest, it was even... um. It was sort of flattering, actually. In a way. That Finn seemed to think it was even _possible_ for Kurt to be like an ordinary normal boy teenager with normal boy ordinary crushes and impulses and dating. It was... legitimizing, being taken for somebody likely to sing a duet, flirt, start kissing, hooking up. Like he was one of the guys. Or girls, whatever. Had _all_ the girls in glee dated Puck? Point being, it was like Kurt was _normal_ , even if it was only second hand vicariously through the detour of Finn's head.

Except, no.

Kurt wrinkled his nose. Come on, there was nothing flattering about it. It was just Finn, jumping to conclusions. Or rather, it was Finn saying that _everybody else_ would be jumping to conclusions. Right. Bravo, Finn. Like _that_ was news. Kurt knew how people tended to speculate, how they made a big deal out of his face, his glance, his smile, the freaking fingerless gloves on his freaking hands (and hadn't _that_ prompted a big and unexpected bout of lurid speculation? Why his gloves of all things?) No rules or reason, just talk about how he sat and how he walked and how he wanted it, how he was bound to like it. The way they'd just look at him and think _sex_.

Maybe Finn had a point. Maybe he shouldn't be singing with Puck.

 _Aren't you at least a little bit worried?_

Well, you know. _Now_ he was.

Over one song behind closed doors in glee. One song that wasn't even slightly romantic. It was moronic, but apparently that didn't matter. He wore fingerless gloves and somehow that equaled... oral sex. Yuck.

Meanwhile, Kurt was so behind the curve. He never even looked at porn. He never - and this might sound kind of strange - but he never even masturbated. Well, he _had_ , he _did_ , he... arghh. Not on purpose. He'd wake up sometimes from those dreams, those wonderfully charging, tingling dreams. And still dreaming, careless and floating - sensuous. He'd... make love to himself. Is what he'd call it if he needed words, one hand on his mouth, breathing and abstract and still half dreaming. Sometimes falling back to sleep between one breath and the next.

And every so often he did lay in bed and think that yes, it might have been nice to have someone to share it with, to make out with and kiss and tangle. Boyfriend. Not Finn though. Please. And not _Puck_ , for the sake of everything holy. He'd break it, like porn would break it, that fragile, fleeting dream.

Kurt was okay with waiting for love. He _was._ Even though it felt lonely, even though it hardly looked good, did it, being without a boyfriend, no one to kiss, no one to walk down the hallway holding his hand. Always alone. Like no one wanted him, like he was this unwanted thing.

Dammit.

And ye-es, Kurt had known all along, alright. Let's just go ahead and admit that right now, since he was being all honest and introspective. On some not very deep level he'd _had_ to have know that Finn hadn't been interested in dating him. Finn had never needed to spell it out. And still Kurt had kept at it. Chasing Finn. Kind of like Rachel, except Rachel was a girl and he'd chosen her in the end. Might have even chosen her long before the end. So not the same after all.

 _No_ , he wasn't envious of Rachel getting Finn, but he was envious about how easy it had seemed for her. Like a flip of a switch, and suddenly they were boyfriend and girlfriend, kissing between classes, smiling all over the place. Instantly recognized as a couple by everyone around. It would never be that simple for Kurt. He didn't fit. Reject.

Hello-o. They'd tossed him into the dumpsters like garbage.

Of all the things dredged up between him and Finn, all the messy things, that one struck him as the least troublesome. They'd tossed him into the dumpsters like garbage. It was wrong - black and white. Easy. Everyone could see it, if you said it out loud. Kurt wished he'd kept going, that he'd told Finn something, something like, _Guess what, almost-stepbrother of mine? There was a rat in the dumpsters this morning. Yeah, and one of the bags was broken, hate it when that happens. I mean, there's always some amount of disgusting involved - the lip of the dumpster is never clean, let me tell you, but this morning what a mess. Stank to high heaven. But don't worry, like I would let something like that bring me down. What's that? Really, you're sorry? I don't see why. You weren't there. You didn't even know it was still going on. Or did you? I was never clear about that. Well, never mind. Tomorrow is another day. Another day for you to pretend that you didn't know it was happening._

Oh no. That wasn't passive aggressive at all.

Here's a thought, maybe he should try not to focus so much on Finn, or on Finn's guilt, and instead-

 _Hang on._

Kurt's eyes darted to the side, instantly alert. Sightings in his peripheral vision, setting off bells of alarm. Oh look, think of the devil. It was one of the guys from this morning, the rat encounter. Tweedledumb. Tommy. He of the buzz cut and the appealing baby voice. _Ugly_ leather jacket. Thankfully not Karofsky as Kurt had initially thought, but from the way the kids in the corridor jumped out of Tommy's way, it sure seemed like he was aspiring to be just like him.

Kurt could see when the bully caught sight of him, could see the stupid bully-type smile on the guy's face, the humorless, scornful smirk of someone who thought Kurt was easy. An easy target. Weak, powerless, deserving of ridicule.

Well. Tommy was wrong about that.

Kurt slowly straightened from where he'd been leaning against the wall. He met the guy's eyes. He felt relaxed, ready. And why not? Tommy wasn't that much larger than Kurt, and whatever he might do, be it words or deeds, Kurt was confident he could take it.

(Don't tell anyone, but there was this new game he'd been wanting to play ever since he'd come back to school after this summer, older and suddenly _not_ shorter than almost everybody else. He'd fantasized about it. How he'd encounter some random bully - not Karofsky - just some random guy without his buddies around. How the guy would try to push him, shove him around, and Kurt, rather than shrink out of the way would plant his feet to meet it, force with near equal opposite force. Ha- _ha!_ Wouldn't see that coming, would they? Yeah. Kurt probably shouldn't take such pleasure from basic, brutish posturing, but honestly? Those additional inches he'd gained over the summer were _soo_ satisfying. And not just because of how they made his clothes fit.)

Tommy seemed to notice Kurt's resolve. A surprised look, a flicker of uncertainty, but he didn't slow down or change course. When he reached Kurt, he was angry and belligerent right off the bat, almost as if he was making up for the brief moment of indecision.

"What're you looking at?" Tommy said, voice raised, wanting the people around them to hear. "Fucking keep your eyes to yourself."

Trite. So trite, Kurt wasn't sure if he should be amused or not. He settled for crossing his arms with a look of boredom on his face (secret of acting, he had to _feel_ bored for it to really work. It helped that Tommy was being so incredibly trite).

"Hello, Tommy," Kurt said. Drawled boredly, whatever. "Did you want something, or did you come over just to be a mindless brute?"

Tommy gave a single, dismissive grunt.

"Thought so," Kurt said. "I'd hate to burst your bubble, but I haven't actually done anything wrong. I'm just standing here, minding my own business. You however, are skirting a very fine line. Keep it up, and you'll be expelled before Christmas."

"What the fuck?" Tommy seemed baffled. He glanced to the sides, looking for someone to share his confusion.

What? Had he expected Kurt to say _nothing_ , just stand there and take it? Was Tommy _that_ blind to his own actions?

"This morning you raised your fist and threatened to hit me," Kurt said. "You and the other goons carried me behind a dumpster against my will. You restrained me, you _put your hands on me_. Not to mention you threw me into the dumpster like garbage. Reality check, bozo. That constitutes assault."

"You-"

"I know what you're thinking." Kurt took a step closer. Forget being bored, he was so _right._ "You're thinking, oh it's just a dumpster toss, it's nothing, happens every day. Well, I'm here to tell you, what you participated in this morning was a botched up _travesty_ of a dumpster toss. You were considering stealing my boots! What's next? Broken arms? Are you going to start pounding on so-called dweebs between classes? Are you going to-"

Okay, _there_ was the expected shove. To be fair, well, Kurt might have had that coming. A little bit. Somehow he'd been getting way up in Tommy's face, forcing the other boy to back away. And now they were standing in the middle of the hallway, facing off.

They had gathered an audience. A rough circle had formed around them. Behind Tommy was the trio of freshmen Kurt had noticed earlier - two girls and a curly-haired boy, all three looking pale and scared. And so young. Further down the hall stood a tall, skinny girl. Kurt didn't know her name, but he'd seen her around (he'd always noticed her because she reminded him of Tyra Banks in her high school years. A whiter, less pretty version of Tyra Banks, thin and somewhat alien-looking. She probably got teased a lot, but then so had Tyra.) She had a pen pressed to her lips, her head tilted. She met Kurt's eyes and smiled, a slow smile bisected by the pen. Tacit approval from Tyra Banks.

Yeah. Kurt had the distinct impression that no one around them was siding with the bully. Tommy was outnumbered, and he seemed well aware of the fact. He looked... worried? Perplexed? His blue eyes were wide open.

Taking his time, Kurt made a point of brushing at his shoulders where Tommy's hands had touched him, getting rid of wrinkles and invisible dirt.

"You pushed me," he said, calm and easy.

"No, I didn't." Tommy shook his head. "You were in my way."

A susurration from the onlookers at the obvious lie.

"Uh-huh." Kurt rolled his eyes. "What an excellent excuse, not at all unoriginal, _I've_ certainly never heard it before. No, wait..."

Nervous laughter from some of the onlookers, particularly from the boy with the curly hair. Tommy spun around and the freshmen trio pulled back, looking scared. Kurt found himself taking a step closer, hands outreached to - he wasn't sure what. Restrain the guy before he attacked them? However, Tommy seemed satisfied by their show of submission. He turned around to face Kurt - made a sound of displeasure when he found Kurt standing much closer than he'd expected. Kurt didn't budge. He blinked slowly, giving Tommy a look of placid disregard.

"Stay away from me, fairy," Tommy snapped, backing away.

Kurt raised his chin and smiled.

"Fairy?" he repeated, his voice soft. "That's nice. Real classy. Odds are, all of your friends will leave you and you'll end up dying alone, because no one likes a bully. This is your wake up call. Take responsibility for your life. Stop being a bully."

"You don't know fuck," Tommy said, his eyes darting around. Definitely rattled.

Kurt took his time (lazy lazy bored), before he deliberately moved out of Tommy's way. The message ought to be clear: Go away, keep on walking. No one wants you. Leave.

Tommy's face turned bright red. Not from anger, Kurt realized, but from blushing. Honest-to-God blushing. Tommy's mouth twisted like he was tasting something bad, and then he abruptly took off, back stiff and walk robot-like. His neck too was bright red.

Kurt stared after the guy, watched him disappear behind a bend in the corridor. The people around him were turning away, returning to normal, entertainment over, end scene.

Kurt felt winded.

That... that had gone by very quickly, but it had happened pretty much exactly the way he'd imagined it would. The way he'd fantasized it would. He'd stood his ground, making the bully back down. He should be pleased. He should feel about ten feet tall.

Shouldn't he?

He didn't. He felt sinking, felt small. Fear, guilt. It had happened so quickly, and somehow he'd messed up. Took it too far. Come off as overreacting, making a big scene. Not in control at all, but unthinking autopilot. What had he said? It was the "dying alone" bit. Kurt shouldn't have said that. It was mean and dull, not witty at all. Think about it, he'd met this guy Tommy all of two times, and still he was judging his entire life. Kurt didn't... like it.

Damn his tender conscience.

Teenage Tyra was still standing there, tall and straight like a candle. She wasn't smiling anymore. She'd probably seen it, noticed how he'd messed up. She didn't say anything, just gave Kurt a solemn nod before she left, walked past him - such a _thin_ girl. He wished... he wasn't sure. He wished she could have stayed with him, his witness.

She could have absolved him.

Was that nuts?

He missed Mercedes.

Kurt turned around, and startled. It was the boy with the curly hair, the one who'd laughed, one girl on each side of him, completing the trio. They were staring at Kurt with excitement on their faces. One of the girls had dark hair and wide-rimmed glasses, the other a round face and pigtails, making her look much younger than her actual age of 14-15 years. They seemed to take Kurt noting their presence as permission to approach, and they did, tentative little steps towards him, crowding him with their soft, eager presence.

"That was... wow," the girl with the pigtails said. "Can I just say I loved how you put Tommy in his place. When you called him a bully and he had no idea what to say - it was perfect. Amazing."

"Really?" Kurt asked. "I... You don't think I was too harsh?"

Argh. Why was he fishing for reassurance from this little group of eager strangers?

"Pfh," the girl with the glasses huffed. "No. He started it. Besides, you were telling the truth, weren't you?"

"The truth is your defense!" the curly-haired boy said, affected a booming voice. Quoting from some movie, was Kurt's guess.

"Always tell the truth," pigtail-girl piped up, smiling and nodding, her hair bobbing.

"I think it was exactly what he needed to hear," the other girl said, turning thoughtful. She was the tallest in the trio, and her nose was slightly crooked. Still pretty, though. "People sometimes need to be hit over the head with a taste of harsh reality to make them think about what they're doing. It could be a wake up call, like you said."

"Thanks," Kurt said. He was reassured, in spite of himself. Maybe he hadn't messed up. Maybe. Time would tell.

"I'm Sophia," the taller girl introduced herself. "And this is Tinsley and Benjamin. Benji."

"Kurt."

There was giggles and laughter, since apparently he should have known that they already knew that. Huh. Still, he nodded politely and repeated each of their names, taken aback by how his attention made them preen. Like Kurt was this famous person. Strange.

No one said anything for a bit. Then the boy - Benji - took a step forward, looking nervous. He spoke in a hushed voice.

"What about the... other stuff you said?" There was an intense, damp look in his eyes, and his friends turned bleak and silent, one second flat. "Did... did they really throw you into the dumpsters?"

Kurt nodded vaguely. "104 times, including this morning."

This morning. The travesty of a dumpster toss. Yeah, that's right, travesty. Tommy deserved his fair share of shame.

"104 times," the boy repeated in a strained whisper. "Really?"

Kurt's mouth fell open, but he couldn't find anything to say. Yeah. Oopsie. He'd spilled the beans, the beans were spilled, and so easily too. Like, _hey, some people get tossed into the dumpsters like garbage, and I'm one of them. It happened 104 times. That's totally normal information._

Why so easy, after keeping it hidden for so long?

Because he had. Hidden it. He'd climb out of the dumpster, timing it so no one would see. He'd go to the bathroom afterwards to wash away all traces, check his face in the mirror, never saying anything to anyone, not even Mercedes. Even when she asked, he'd lied. _Are you alright? Did someone try something?_ _No, nothing. Nothing important._

Everybody knew that dumpster tosses weren't supposed to be important. It was this thing. Routine, jovial almost, same jokes, same careful one two three. They'd never really tried to injure, and Kurt had trusted that. Mostly. Mostly trusted that. He'd taken _pride_ in not losing his cool. The good little toss-e, taking it with class, sassing off, telling himself it wasn't anything to get worked up about. After all, a safe and ritualized trip to the dumpster was much better than the alternatives, all the what-might-happens if he put up a fuss. Much easier just to stick with what worked. Less risky.

Well. It wasn't working anymore.

This morning there'd been a rat in the dumpster, and he'd gotten no, _no_ respect, no saved up credit, not a bit of consideration for all the times he'd behaved. _Let's skip it this time, guys._ Nuh-huh. They'd just wanted to humiliate him, by force if necessary.

It had never been just nothing.

"It happened to me _once._ " Benji was whispering. "Since then, I always stick close to someone else after I get off the bus. I don't want them to catch me alone ever again."

The girls pressed close on either side of him. A gloomy three-way huddle of affection.

"I had no idea that it was going on," Tinsley, the short girl, said. "Now I can't stop seeing them, just hanging around. Waiting. Like wolves. It's creepy."

"Exactly," Sophia nodded. "They'd never even talked to Benji before, and then out of nowhere - _wham_. Wolves."

"It's wrong!" Tinsley shook her small fist. "We've got to do something."

Benji was staring right at Kurt. "It never stopped?" he asked. "They just kept... a _hundred..._?"

104 times. That did seem like a lot.

It was a _guess_ , alright? Kurt hadn't actually kept count. Of course not, that would have forced him to _think_ about it.

"I told principal Figgins, the second time it happened," he felt compelled to point out. There, see. Kurt had tried, he'd put up an effort. He wasn't completely stupid, of course not.

"What did he say?" Benji asked.

"Not much." Kurt shrugged, tense. Bah.

Mr. Figgins had said, had said with his Indian accent: "the _whole_ foot ball team? I find that hard to believe."

Had said, "is that what you were wearing?"

So no, it probably hadn't been the whole team, Kurt might have been wrong about that. And he might have been wearing a pair of pink form fitting jeans, is what he'd been wearing, yes. Not that it made much of a difference, but there you are.

"Does Mr. Figgins know that it's still going on?" Benji looked hopeful. "Maybe I should tell him. Report it. If... if no one knew it was me. Or..."

"Someone should sue the school," Sophia interrupted, angry. "People could get hurt! They could bump their head, or have an asthma attack. Or develop mental issues. It's serious."

"I'm going to talk to Mr. Figgins," Benji said, his back straightening. Brave-little-guy look on his face.

"Me too," Sophia said, no hesitation.

"And me." The other girl leaned her head against Benji's shoulder.

Kurt was silent. Listening to those kids was kind of messing with his head. Here they were, upset and indignant and wanting to _do_ something. It was... it didn't fit. Benji, with his brown eyes and inconspicuous smile and baggy cargo pants. Probably the only reason he'd been picked was that he'd been alone. If it happened again Benji might bump his head or get an asthma attack. And the thing that _really_ messed with Kurt's head was that it might have been unnecessary. All of it.

104 times. When had he learned to accept it?

"Me too," Kurt said. "I'll talk to the principal, give it another try." He felt as fragile as glass.

"That's great!" Benji said, bouncing with excitement. The girls chimed in with their agreement, all of them grinning. Bouncing and grinning.

"Yeah," Kurt breathed. He smiled back, infected by their enthusiasm. Maybe. Maybe it was great.

After that, the trio took their leave with smiles and goodbyes and looks of appreciation, admiration, even. So, so strange. Kurt watched them walk off together. They were glancing back at Kurt and bouncing into each other, walking so close. It was nice how easy they were together. Not in a couple-y kind of way, but easy and solid. Childhood friends, was Kurt's guess.

He wouldn't let them down.

Seriously. It wasn't on _Kurt_ to tackle every single moron who wanted to keep the stupid practice going. It was on the school. The dumpster tosses really _were_ a lawsuit waiting to happen, and the school had a vested interest in making it stop. And they had the power to make that happen. They could forbid students from tossing other students into the dumpsters. There could be detention, suspension, and the calling of parents for anyone who broke that rule. And that could be it for the dumpster tosses.

Sure, the most persistent of the Neanderthals would undoubtedly move on to something equally obnoxious, but for kids like Benji it might make all the difference. And yeah, okay, for Kurt as well. He could live without the stink of dumpsters in his nostrils, could live without leftovers sticking to his hands.

And get this, perfect timing, his dad might not even have to get involved.

Kurt might never again have to pretend that it didn't happen. Load off his back.

 _Kurt. How was your day? Fine, dad. We're doing a mashup in glee. Got an A on the History exam. I'm meeting Mercedes later for a blah di blah blah..._ and so on and so forth. All the positive, rarely anything about the negative. Certainly not anything about Kurt starting his day in the dumpster, even thought he knew full well that his dad would have found that important. Telling his dad that it wasn't that big a deal, it was just a dumpster toss... yeah, right. That would have gone over so well.

Anyway, Kurt would talk to principal Figgins. As in, he would do it right now. Now, do it now. Before he changed his mind.

Like an echo, he heard a voice in his head. Ted Neeley, singing in the unsurpassed 1973 movie performance: _Bleed me, beat me, kill me. Do it now. Before I change my mind._

Hah. Jesus Christ Superstar. His mother had loved that movie. They'd loved it together. Slightly incongruous that is was about Jesus, but on the other hand, not really. The musical was there for anyone to appreciate. Astonishing to contemplate that Andrew Lloyd Webber and whatever-the-other-guy had barely been into their twenties when they'd penned such a relatable masterpiece. Not that it had anything to do with Kurt's situation. It was just a bit of associative memory, snippets of lyrics popping into his head.

Kurt felt like he was walking on air all his way to the principal's office. No one could stop him now. He'd do this thing, he'd get it right this time.

His dad was coming home next week. How's that for a motivation to get this mess cleaned up once and for all?


	13. A city on top of a hill

**Chapter 13**

Emma Pillsbury was alone in her office. It was a slow day, her only visitor so far had been Kurt Hummel, earlier this morning. That conversation hadn't gone well. The more she thought about it, the more of a failure it appeared.

As a guidance counselor Emma had her weaknesses, she'd be the first to admit. As a _human being_ she had her weaknesses and she was well aware of that as well. But as long as she was aware of it, it was all for the good, she'd come to reason.

Her weaknesses made her a better person. Certainly they made her a more kind and attentive one.

There were schools where being sent to the guidance counselor was seen as a punishment for bad behavior. Students rarely went on their own volition, just to talk. Not so McKinley High. Emma's door was always open, no one excluded, no subject too small. The students should always know that she was there for them if they asked.

That's how she transcended the little bittle voice in her head that told her she needed to be under a blanket, curled up alone, safe and isolated from the world.

Emma had a bible quote that never failed to remind her of who she wanted to be:

 **You are the light of the world. A city on top of a hill cannot be hidden. No one lights a lamp and puts it under a basket. Instead, they put it on top of a lampstand, and it shines on all who are in the house.**

Matthew 5:14-15.

She'd considered making a tasteful printout of the verse to hang on her office wall, but now she was glad she'd decided against it. It wasn't just Kurt, but any number of other students would have taken it the wrong way. Emma wanted her room to be a sanctuary for everybody, and she wasn't in the business of pointing fingers or pushing people into doing what they should do. She asked questions, gentle questions, and more often than not she had the joy of seeing the students acknowledge their own troubles and - with minimal help from her - take their own steps towards the path of healing. Deep down, everybody yearned to be free of the things that dragged them down. Every human, no matter how crooked or mislead, knew the difference between light and darkness, everyone was a soul that yearned for the sky.

That is to say, _almost_ everybody. Sue Sylvester might just be an exception to that rule.

Even Sue though...

Yes, in spite of appearances, even Sue yearned. It might be buried deep underneath disappointment and bitterness, but there was love in Sue Sylvester's heart. Emma might never have gotten to see it if she herself hadn't turned into a Mama Bear on behalf of Kurt the other week. Overcome with anger at Sue's interferences, she'd stormed into the other woman's office to scream at her as a wise and fair minded councilor _never_ should:

 _What's wrong with you!?_

 _What horrible, horrible thing happened to make you such a miserable tyrant?_

And Sue Sylvester had responded. Not with anger, but with calmness and clarity. She told Emma about her sister, her "moon and her sky", and there it was. Love, at the root of it all. Love, which through the naive world-view of a child had been twisted into spitefulness. The child Sue had been had asked for a miracle on behalf of her sister and when it hadn't been granted she'd turned against God. God, who'd given her that love in the first place.

It explained so much.

What Emma had wanted right then was to reach back in time to hold that lost little girl, pull her close and comfort her. It was disconcerting to realize that somewhere inside that forbidding, statuesque women, she still lived on. All too quick the moment passed and Sue Sylvester had reverted to name-calling and insults. Emma had left Sue's self-shrine of an office, knowing that the little girl she'd been allowed to glimpse was now far, far beyond her reach.

It was only then that Emma had realized that the subject of Kurt Hummel had been completely sidestepped. As usual Sue had managed to make it all about herself.

Emma restlessly moved the pencil sharpener on her desk. Kurt's comment about Sue came back as if to haunt her.

 _She was the only one who was on my side._

The only one? Emma shook her head. In her experience, it wasn't unusual for teenagers to make absolutist declarations of betrayal, and she'd long ago learned not to take such statement at face value. She knew it hurt, and intensely, but she also knew that those things needed to run their course. Quarrels would pass, more often than not, and if they didn't... well, sometimes things don't work out. In the end it might be for the better. Besides, it wasn't Emma's job to serve as a mediator between students - if she got started she would have time for little else.

This situation, however, was different. Because... for so many reasons. She'd long considered Kurt Hummel one of her most vulnerable students, and she'd felt bad for not being more involved. That's why it made her happy each time she saw him happy. To see him perform music with the glee club, to see him walking by in the corridor next to Mercedes Jones, hanging on each other's arms and laughing. It had felt like a good solid step in the right direction.

She'd been there in the hospital when the doctor had given him the details about his father's illness. He'd looked shattered, like someone who was seeing all his nightmares coming true. She'd tried to reach out to him and been rebuffed several times, and she'd left it at that - at least she'd known that he wouldn't be alone.

Had she been wrong?

There was a decisive knock on her door, a hard _knock-knock-knock_. She looked up and there he was, Kurt, his hand raised as if to knock again in case she didn't immediately answer. Their eyes met through the glass, and without waiting for her to invite him inside he opened the door and stepped through.

"Miss Pillsbury," he said. There was a hectic, exited air about him. "I'm glad you're not busy. I was wondering if you had the time..." He strolled across the floor, turned. Took a few steps in the other direction.

"Would you like to sit down?"

"Can't. I have an appointment with the principal." Despite his words, Kurt sank down on the chair he'd occupied only a couple hours earlier. He leaned towards her. "I was waiting outside his room when it occurred to me that you might want to be there as well."

Emma frowned. "Kurt. Why were you...?"

Did he get himself sent to Mr. Figgins office? Again? She remembered Will telling her about Kurt's outburst in glee. Apparently he'd been extremely disruptive and - reading between the lines - rude to the point of vulgarity. It hadn't sounded like Kurt at all. But then, her image of Kurt was of a gentle, tentative boy who looked like it would never occur to him to say a cruel word to anybody. The boy she'd talked to this morning had been... different. A bitter and resentful stranger. It had thrown her for a loop, and she might just have to admit that she probably never knew him all that well in the first place.

"I'm making a formal complaint, I guess. Yeah." Kurt pressed his lips together, a tight smile. He searched her face with poised intensity. "About the dumpster tosses."

"The what?" Was she supposed to know anything about dumpster...? A memory surfaced and she went cold. "You mean the initiation nastiness from a few years ago?"

"A few years ago?" Kurt sounded like she'd just insulted him, but he flicked his hand, brushed it aside. "Never mind. Can you please be there when I talk to him? It would make it so much easier." He smiled, a sudden grin that she didn't understand. "You could be my champion."

Emma was already reaching behind her chair to get her purse. He didn't need to persuade her. He was a student asking for her support, of course she'd be there. Of course.

They were just in time. The always surly receptionist outside Mr. Figgins' room gave them a tired look and motioned them toward the principal's opened door. They entered, Kurt taking the lead and she followed close behind. The principal looked up from a pile of papers on his desk, he didn't seem surprised to see her. They sat down, two chairs side by side.

She was somewhat amused to note that she and Kurt had assumed the same straight-backed pose, legs crossed, right leg over the left, hands folded on top of the knee.

"What can I do for you?" Figgins asked, glancing back and forth between them. His manner was guarded, but pleasant enough.

In her experience, Mr. Figgins was one of the most levelheaded persons she knew. He worked hard, late hours, a good administrator who always seemed to have the student's best interests at heart. He had a certain wit, a bone-dry humor that never failed to make her smile. That said, she was worried. She knew Figgins wasn't well liked among the students and he'd done very little to alleviate that situation. Seeing him through Kurt's eyes, he seemed... shabby, with his sweater vest and ancient dress jacket. The room smelled cold and stale.

Please let this go well.

"I just wanted..." A false start. Kurt cleared his throat. He seemed to be much more nervous than she'd realized. She gave him an encouraging look.

"I'm here about the dumpster tosses," Kurt said, his voice clear. "They need to stop."

Again about the dumpsters. It couldn't be what it sounded like. It was too absurd.

"The... dumpster tosses?" Figgins repeated.

It was just as absurd when he said it.

Kurt made a sound of impatience. "Whatever you call it," he said. "The dumpsters by the parking lot. They are habitually served as a depository for students deemed 'too annoying' or 'too puny' or just 'not manly enough.''' Kurt made air quotes with his fingers. He stared at Figgins blank face with narrowed eyes. "Bullying," he overenunciated. "Please make it stop."

"Kurt," she said, slow and with rising concern. "Did somebody... do that to you?"

He rolled his eyes. "What do you think?"

What did she think? She was resisting the urge to lean away from him, to move the chair just the slightest bit to the right. He'd been _inside_ the dumpster? They actually _did_ that?

"A sorry affair," Figgins said, nodding slowly up and down. "A so-called initiation tradition that was never sanctioned by the management of this school."

"It's still going on," Kurt said.

"I talked to the students myself, and Coach Tanaka assured me they remained penitent. Good lads, a sorry affair.

"Some of them are still doing it."

"It was an initiation that went too far."

"Is 'initiation' what we're supposed to call it now?" Kurt's voice was frigid. He held one hand close to his cheek, fingers curled, leaning back in the chair. His entire body language seemed designed to convey the image of _disdainful superiority_.

"Kurt..." she said. "What do you mean, it's still going on?"

"Occasional lapses," Figgins said.

"No, not occasional lapses." Kurt was still speaking _down_ to the principal. She wished he'd stop, it wasn't helping matters at all. "The dumpster brigade patrol weekly, sometimes several days in a row. It's practically an institution in this school."

"Kurt..." Emma felt flustered. "I'm so, so sorry. I can't imagine - that is to say..."

"It's not about me!" he cut her off. "I'm hardly the only one getting the dumpster treatment on a regular basis. Some get it much, _much_ worse than me."

"Like that Jewish boy?" Figgins interjection had a note of triumph, like Kurt had just confirmed some suspicion of his.

" _Puck?_ " Kurt was startled out of his cool veneer, his face open and incredulous.

"Of course not," Figgins said, impatient. "The one who takes the pictures, the one who writes on the internet. He sent you, didn't he? He told you what to say."

"I have _nothing_ to do with Jacob Ben Israel," Kurt said. She was startled at the vehemence in his voice.

"Don't lie to me," Figgins snapped. "He staged the videos and you helped."

Kurt leaned forward. "What videos would that be?" A whisper, heavy with accusation.

The _don't lie to me_ finally registered in Emma's mind, and with it came a heart-beating anger.

"Mr. Figgins!" She was yelling and she didn't care. "I can't believe what I'm hearing! Is this how you treat the children who come to you for help? You should apologize to Mr. Hummel, right now!"

Figgins stared at her, and she watched his manner slowly turn frozen and wooden as the impetus of her demand landed on him, and settled. There was a long enough pause to make her realize that he wasn't going to do it. The principal glanced in Kurt's direction and then turned back to her with a incredulous grimace that might as well have been spoken out loud. _Apologize?_ Figgins seemed to say. _To him? Really? Look at him. You can't be serious._

Her hand shot out at its own volition, grabbing Kurt's sleeve. They should leave. This wasn't a good place for him right now.

"No, it's alright," Kurt said. He gently freed his sleeve from her grip. He seemed so sad. How had she missed how _sad_ he still was? "Don't worry about it, Miss Pillsbury. I get it. It's hard to hear what you don't want to hear. But I'm telling you the dumpster tosses are still going on. Sooner or later there will be an accident. Someone will get their head cracked open on the edge of the dumpster, and they'll just stay in there, not able to climb out. The rest of your lives you'll wonder why they never showed up for school. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"We won't let that happen." Her voice shook. The picture he painted was nightmarish. "I promise. We'll see that it's taken care of." She looked at Mr. Figgins to make sure he knew he was included in her promise. Either way. She'd do it with or without his help. She'd put an end to those dumpster... things.

"Thanks, Miss Pillsbury," Kurt said, giving her a pale smile.

"If it's so bad and dangerous, why haven't you said anything before now?" Figgins asked, harsh and abrupt.

Emma frowned. The principal _really_ shouldn't be asking that, but she couldn't help but notice the thoughtfulness that seemed to fall over the boy. He looked like he was genuinely contemplating the question. She didn't stir, not wanting to disturb him. She wanted to hear his answer herself.

"It's hard to talk about it... because of the humiliation," Kurt said. He gave a disinterested shrug that somewhat belied the words. "Fear can be tolerated. Humiliation? Never. I..." Kurt bit his lip, frowning. "You think that's why you won't believe Ben Israel? He's made himself lower than scum, by the stuff he writes and the way he conducts himself. No one wants to listen to what he has to say. No one wants to be humiliated like him."

Kurt looked down, dark eyelashes hiding his eyes. _Beautiful_ boy - the thought went through her mind, inescapably. An unusual face, containing contradictions. A sharp bold nose. Cheekbones. An expressive mouth.

"Besides." Kurt glanced up, less thoughtful, more filled with determination. "I already tried to talk about it with you, Mr. Figgins. Two years ago, if you'd remember. You chose to turn it into a discussion about my wardrobe." A soft-spoken reprimand. Emma had seen her fair share of anger and disrespect from students in this room, but the calm struck her as uncanny.

Figgins stared back at Kurt, his eyebrows raised. Again the grimace that spoke volumes. _This wardrobe?_ He seemed to say. _Look at you. How can you even ask?_

"A boy should wear boy's clothes," the principal said. "That's just the way it is."

Kurt huffed an incredulous little laugh. Emma was too shocked to do even that.

"There's nothing wrong with the way I dress," Kurt said.

"Of course not," Emma agreed, stumbling over the words. "Everyone is allowed to-"

"That's why you won't believe me about the dumpsters, isn't it?" Kurt was still talking to the principal. "I'm no good, not with the way I dress. I'm not right, I'm not _clean._ "

Whoa. Emma held up her palm in Kurt's direction, to prevent him from taking it too far.

"We believe you," she said. She turned to Figgins. " _Don't_ we?"

The man seemed to shrink, become shorter in his chair. As well he might. He was handling himself atrociously.

"What do you suggest I should do?" Figgins' voice was _whiny_ , there was no other word for it. He raised his hands in an attitude of assumed helplessness.

It was a side of the principal that she'd seen glimpses of before, but never this clearly. It made Emma want to slap him. Instead she turned away from him, demonstrative and sudden, all her attention on Kurt.

"Some of the footballers, you say?" she asked. "The new coach won't stand for that, I guarantee." She was pretty sure Shannon Beiste would kick people off her team for less.

Kurt nodded, looking shaken but trying to hide it. "Some footballers," he said. "A few hockey players. A few tagalongs who're not on any team. I'm sorry... do you want names? I don't know them all."

Figgins huffed, a _he doesn't even know the names_ kind of huff. She pretended not to have heard. His scolding would come later, when a student wasn't around. And it would be severe.

"Names can wait," she said. "What's important right now is that we get the word out. Everyone on staff needs to be in on this. Those... those dumpster tosses need to stop. It's inhumane, it's a blight on the school and it can't be tolerated. Mr. Figgins, wholly aside from the question about how often it happens, _once_ is too much. You should never have let it continue, and I'm _stunned_ that you've managed to turn a blind eye for so long."

Mr. Figgins had let the children down, that was the bottom line. By not dealing with it properly, he was responsible. Shifting the blame to individual students wasn't right. They were victims too, because of _his_ negligence.

She was waiting for Figgins to nod, and then he did, reluctant but it was there. She could see it in his face. Finally. She wouldn't have to browbeat him or go over his head to make him take this seriously. She relaxed, glad to see that at last _some_ of her trust hadn't been misplaced. Still, his disregard for Kurt had not been subtle. She could only hope that she'd managed to protect the boy from the worst of it.

Emma got to her feet. "I think this will be enough for now."

She reached for Kurt as he got up. Standing side by side, she let her arm briefly rest across his back. Because she _had_ to. Had to do something to make her alliances clear. The principal looked up at them, noted her hand on Kurt's back, and he kept nodding that same reluctant nod that told her that he accepted the she was in the right, even if he didn't really want to.

"You're a good Christian woman," he said. For some _unfathomable_ reason.

He'd said as much to her before, several times. She wished he wouldn't. Especially not _now_ with Kurt right there, close enough to feel him stiffen, and then watch the corners of his expressive mouth curl up in a derisive sneer before he simply turned around and left the room.

"Well," Emma said, frowning. "That's neither here nor there."

She _hated_ to see her faith used as a tool to put somebody down, even if it happened to be unintentional.

She caught up with Kurt in the reception room, where he'd been waiting for her. She closed the door to the principal's office behind her, using both hands, making sure that the door was properly closed. Kurt watched her do it and gave her a small grin. She smiled back, and then found herself caught up in a soundless and unexpectedly lighthearted conversation of facial expressions in the variety of _Seriously?_ And _Wow!_ and _Did that just happen?_

"I'm _glad_ I went to get you," Kurt said, slumping in a pantomime of relief.

Imagining what it might have been like if she hadn't been there, she had to agree.

Would it be wrong to hug him? She settled for a smile and a touch to his arm. She glanced to the side - the receptionist didn't appear to be listening, not that it really mattered. If word got back to Figgins, so what? Let him hear what she had to say. Still, she leaned closer to Kurt and lowered her voice.

"Listen," she said. "Mr. Figgins can be awfully thoughtless sometimes. Some of his views are pretty... narrow-minded and, and _stupid_. You can't take everything he says to heart."

She searched his eyes, making sure he understood. Making sure he was alright. He certainly appeared to be, at least right now. Shaking his head, laughing in agreement, he didn't appear to have been too affected by the principal's insensitive words. That was good to see.

So what if Kurt Hummel was a little... different. Hippity hoppity. That is to say, he was _gay._ Through no fault of his own. People shouldn't think less of him - or _anybody_ \- because of that. It was so sad how often it happened, especially, _especially_ when the intolerance was shrouded in the cloak of religion. It was tragic how many gay and lesbian youths grew up not knowing that they were _loved_ by the church.

"You know," Kurt said. "Mr. Figgins once called Tina into his office to tell her that she had to stop dressing like a _vampire_. Going by how she tells it, he seriously thought she was possessed by a demon. Yeah." He smirked, not quite looking at her. "He probably believes that about me as well. I'm filled with the demons of homosexuality. Que an exorcism."

"I'm sure he doesn't think that," Emma said. She made her correction mild. She couldn't blame him for his mockery, not right now.

"Really?" Kurt's gaze shifted to meet hers, direct and then away. A challenge, she wasn't quite sure about what.

"It's never that simple," she said. "You shouldn't saddle people with beliefs they don't hold." Of course. It was too easy to reduce religion to crude caricatures that did more harm than good. Demons, exorcisms, suicide bombings, the image of Christ on a slice of toast. God was much, much larger than that.

Kurt scoffed, not really open for discussion, she could tell. And no wonder, she was pretty shaken up herself, her thoughts going in a thousand directions. Dumpster tosses? _Boy's_ clothes? What?

"Kurt. If anything happens..."

"Then I'll come to you." Curt, impatient. Again, no wonder.

She followed him toward the corridor door.

"It's okay to take it easy on yourself," she rushed to say, to catch him before he left. "Rest up. Don't go back to classes until after the lunch break unless you want to. I'll talk to your teachers."

"Mhm? Okay." A small grin over his shoulder, making his eyes squint. Glad to get out of his classes. He was such a _kid_ underneath it all. "Thanks."

"No, thank _you._ I mean it. You might have helped a lot of people today. You did good."

A vague nod.

"Was there anything else?" she asked. "I mean... what are you thinking right now?"

"I'm thinking... okay." He was silent, looked at her with a hard-to-decipher expression on his face. Took a deep breath. "Miss Pillsbury, there's nothing wrong about being an atheist."

"Oh. I see. That's... a lot right now. Can we talk more later?"

"Uh-huh."

And he was on his way. Long strides in dark knee-high boots and a messenger bag clutched tightly to his side as if he was worried someone would try to grab it. He held his head high. Such a brave, courageous boy.

She hadn't known he'd gone so far as to identify as an atheist. But it was alright. It was all for the good. There was kindness in the world, unforeseen graces and golden coincidences. Kurt just needed a little bit of time to see it, to see that things weren't just black and white, no matter how much he tried to deny it. God didn't discriminate, he was there for everybody, Emma was sure.

She had faith.


	14. Acupuncture

**Chapter 14**

Kurt was sitting on his conveniently private-public bench by the south wall, and he couldn't stop smiling. When somebody happened to look his way he had to put his hand over his mouth because of his silly smile. To anyone watching he probably looked _high_.

Hahaha.

So alright, enough. He clearly had to get a grip. He leaned back against the bench, trying to look more peaceful. The air was chilly, but the sun warmed his face, and there was a nice warmth on his back from the sunny wall. Birds chirping, peace and idleness for Kurt Hummel.

Not so much for Mr. Figgins.

Mwahaha.

Mr. Figgins was such a, such a _sneak_. He'd known about the dumpster tosses. But now Miss Pillsbury knew he knew, she'd keep her eyes on him, he couldn't sneak out of his responsibilities anymore. This was it for the dumpster tosses. Kurt might never have to think about the dumpsters ever again. He twined his hands together, chuckling.

There was a guy trotting by not far from Kurt. He was carrying a skateboard and he gave Kurt a curious look before quickly glancing away. Whatever. Kurt should... he should do something normal-looking. He should check his phone, see if he had any massages, is what he should do. He unstrapped the lid of his bag and pulled out his phone. Not that he was expecting much, but... hello. Kurt gazed at the display. He had one new message from Mercedes. It was short and to the point.

 **Where are you?**

He wrote back:

 **I was talking to Miss Pillsbury. Meet you before lunch?**

Talking to Miss Pillsbury! That was a grave understatement. He'd gone to the authorities, left a report, and he'd made then listen to him. He felt totally accomplished. It was like he had this secret identity, like he'd been undercover all this time, it had all served a purpose. Seriously, he might have helped a lot of people. Please excuse him for taking a moment to congratulate himself.

Now what _else_ could he do?

Anything. Anything, he could do anything. He could _find Karofsky_ and... and... talk to him. Make him see his actions in a different light. Make him become a whole new person.

Hah! Right.

But it wasn't... wasn't _crazy._ It wasn't. Puck could be there. Kurt could say something to Karofsky that wasn't insulting, maybe, maybe, and maybe they could have something that wasn't a _shouting match_. And next time Karofsky encountered him in the hallway, Kurt wouldn't end up of the floor, wind knocked out of his body. Low bar, baby steps. It might work. He could try.

Kurt looked up at the sound of footsteps. There was a group of Cheerios walking by, patterns of red and white. Two guys, four girls. One of the girls was Brittany. And Kurt was on his feet, forgetting dignity, his hand up in the air, shouting.

"Britt! Hey, Britt!"

Brittany spun around, laughing when she saw him. She strode towards him, leaving the other Cheerios to stare. Kurt held out his arms. Brittany! He wasn't even sure why he was so over-the-top glad to see her, except he'd been sitting on _their_ bench and then _wham!_ here she was. They hugged. Since when were they hugging friends? But it was nice. It was status granted, and warmth. He enjoyed the surprised faces of her five companions. Like, hey. Kurt Hummel. Not alone, but in the arms of Brittany Pierce.

Cool.

She pulled back, grinning. She was wearing the team jacket, warm with bulky sleeves. Her legs were bare though. She had to be cold, but she didn't show it.

"This is like, our bench," she said.

"I was just thinking that!"

"You're excited!" she exclaimed, clearly delighted by that fact.

"I guess I am." He laughed at himself. He was being silly, and it felt good.

The Cheerios were still standing there, shifting their feet, waiting for Brittany. Brittany, who turned towards them and lifted her hand in a lazy goodbye. Her companions glanced at each other and sort of shrugged before they continued on their way, back to the main building. A gaggle of prideful grace.

Cheerios. Cheerios, Cheerios, Cheerios. The true athletes of the school, if you asked Kurt. And he'd know. He'd worn that uniform once, he knew how hard they worked. Of course he hadn't _really_ been one of them. As soon as Sue Sylvester had decided she no longer had use for his vocals he'd been off the team. And that was fine. He didn't belong. Please. As much as he adored Anna Bessonova, a professional gymnast he was not. He couldn't execute a handspring or a flip or even a decent-looking cartwheel, and that wasn't putting himself down, that was being realistic. In an average cheerleading team he would have done alright, probably. Not so with the five times consecutive National championship winners. He was just glad he'd been able to fake it well enough for as long as it lasted.

Would have been nice if they didn't _all_ treat him like air, though. With the exception of Brittany, of course. She always did get away with choosing her own company.

They went over to sit down on the bench. Kurt shifted in his seat to face her. "So Britt... hi." He grinned. "What's going on?"

There was no response. Brittany sat with her legs outstretched in front of her, crossed at the ankles. She seemed to be gazing at the clouds. Apparently no longer happy to see him.

"Hi," she finally said, her voice distant.

Okay? Kurt glanced at the clouds as well, blinking. What was it up there that was so distracting?

"Santana is mad at you," she said.

"Santana? Why?"

"I'm saying no to sex."

"You are?" Yikes.

"Yes." Her gaze shifted to him, a sideways look from the corner of her eyes. "You give good advice. I listen to you."

"O... kay." Brittany was saying no to sex? Like, _all_ sex? Because of _him_?

"Santana says I shouldn't listen to somebody who's just jealous because he has no game. Santana says there's nothing wrong with having a bit of fun. Santana says you're slut shaming me. That's a bad word."

Oh no.

"Brittany," Kurt breathed. "You're not... I never meant to say..."

She shook her head, dismissed his attempt at an apology. "I've had sex with a lot of people. I'm easy. You don't approve."

Kurt inhaled, and stilled. He couldn't quite... argue. With that.

He'd been there, after all. Brittany in his room, available for kissing, for probably anything that might have popped into his head at the time. For anything that might have... popped up. That is, if he'd gotten an, ugh, erection. Back then. It wasn't _inconceivable_. Kissing and groping could do that. And there it was. Sex, not such a big step after all, just unbuttoning, her short skirt, get the clothes out of the way. Super easy.

Easy as in cheap. As in, not important. Certainly _he'd_ kissed her like she didn't count. Ack.

So yeah, Santana might have a bit of a point. So what if he hadn't used the word _slut_ and he never would, Kurt-no-game-Hummel so wasn't equipped to talk to Brittany about _sex_. Come on. He'd been so sure she'd been doing something wrong, making herself available to a lot of guys. But really, what was wrong with that? It was her choice. He should just let her live her life instead of trying to butt in. Instead of trying to fix her. _Fix her._

Well, hi, hello, _Finn_. I'm just like you.

Was he?

Hell no.

On the completely other hand, Kurt should stop freaking out _right now_ and remember that _all he'd done_ \- all he'd done! - was to tell Brittany that it was okay to say no. If she wanted to. That was all! And, oh yeah, he'd also told her that there was no Santa.

Which, take a moment to let that sink in. A girl who believed in Santa had slept with the entire football team.

Kurt gazed at Brittany, her straight bangs and soft-looking mouth. Lip balm. Nice application of mascara. She didn't look unhappy, just calm and beautiful. He wanted to ask her, get underneath the surface, ask her something like, _Are you okay? Did I make you less okay by talking to you as if you weren't? I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. Please be fine._

"I'm glad you don't seem to be upset anymore," Kurt said, slowly. Since last time they'd talked she'd run away crying. Real tears, because he'd told her there was no Santa. He wasn't sure if he should be reminding her of that.

Brittany shrugged. "I was sad, but you were right. I asked my mom, and she said she told me Santa was real because it made me happy. But it doesn't make me happy now."

"I'm sorry."

" _You_ shouldn't be sorry." She leaned closer, whispering like they shared a secret. "What about the reindeers? How do they fly?"

"They don't," Kurt said. Was that a trick question?

"Exactly! I knew you were going to say that! I knew it!" Britt laughed, and then she reached over and poked Kurt's cheek with her finger. _Poke._ "You give the best advice because you always tell the truth. I listen to you."

"Okay. Um..." Kurt was starting to feel a bit alarmed. Yeah, alarmed. He was pretty sure that whatever was going on in Brittany's head, it was something he should discourage, right now. He caught her hand, her poking hand, held it between both of his own. "Just because I was right about Santa doesn't mean that I can always give you the best advice. I'll mess up, I'll say stupid things without meaning to." Especially when it comes to sex. Please, he was so behind the curve. "You're a grown up, and part of being a grown up is that you have to start thinking for yourself, not just do what other people tell you. Do you understand? You have a mind of your own."

She just looked at him, unblinking. Holding hands, their faces close together. To any passerby, they probably looked like a couple. In love. Brittany sat in silence before she tugged her hand out of his grasp. She straightened her back and turned away from him. The couple was having a fight.

"I know that," she said, sounding dry. And maybe just a little bit scornful. "I have a mind of my own, I can think for myself. I'm not _that_ stupid."

Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

"I don't think you're stupid _at all._ " People kept accusing him of saying that!

Brittany didn't react, and there was a stiffness to her posture that looked all wrong.

"Brittany?" Kurt tried. "It's not stupid to believe in things that aren't true. People do it all the time. It's not stupid, it's just normal."

"Oh." She tucked in her chin, her shoulders tight. He hoped... well, he hoped people hadn't been cruel to her in the past, calling her stupid or worse. But that was a useless hope, since he already knew it wasn't true.

"You know what?" he said. He put his arm over her shoulders and gingerly pulled her towards him. Wow, but she was immovable. Then she relented, leaning up against him, tall and compact, coiled power beneath his arm. Amazonian woman, your name was Brittany Pierce.

"What?" she asked.

"I think..." How to say this? "I think it's good that you're questioning things. And you can talk to me about anything you want. I'll try to give good advice, even if I won't always succeed."

Did that sound like he was taking on a commitment, the way he was using her own words back at her? He hoped not. Gratifying as it was to be seen as somebody else's wellspring of wisdom, it made him nervous. And it made him wonder... was it _weird_ that she'd believed him right away, yesterday when he'd told her Santa didn't exist? Maybe not. Maybe she'd suspected all along, and she'd only asked because it was something she'd been ready to hear.

"Okay," she said. He could feel her relaxing, some of her weight resting against his side. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Sure." He smiled, uncertain. Please don't make it about sex.

"Is it true that God is made up, just like Santa?"

Kurt winced. Danger, danger, Will Robinson. "Right. The question of God." He'd better tread very, very carefully here on out. "Britt... you already know that _I_ don't believe in a god. What do _you_ believe?"

"I don't want to say." Sulky. Which probably meant that she did believe, and now she was embarrassed to admit it. Just great.

"Well," Kurt said. "Going back to what I said before, about thinking for yourself..."

She pulled away from him and glared, her lips tight. Angry Britt. It didn't seem quite genuine, a bit of bad acting, but at least she was making her displeasure clear.

"No, I'm trying to answer," he said, hands raised. "It's just that God is a much harder question than Santa. A lot of smart people don't know what to think about God, and that's okay. It's okay to say that you don't know."

"But you don't think God is real."

He looked at her, at her squared shoulders and expectant face. Waiting for him. She looked... contained. She looked like her own person, not like someone to be coddled or talked down to.

"Okay," he said. "You want to hear that I really think about all of this?"

"I do." She even rolled her eyes, as if saying _get on with it_.

And still he hesitated. He looked away, gazing out over the yard. There was a group of girls sitting on the steps by the flag pole, talking, heads leaning close. Probably most of them went to church every Sunday, to hear the priest proclaim his gospel truth, like Quinn, like Mercedes, like whoever else, Kurt didn't even know. Tina? Mike? Probably. And hardly anyone there to say otherwise, just allowing them to live in a bubble of respectful silence, all hush hush reverence from the day they were born. Childhood indoctrination, yay. What's with all the respectful silence anyway?

"Okay," Kurt said. "Here's what I think. I think it's _obvious_ that God is made up. All you have to do is think about it for like three seconds and you'll see that religion is just a bunch of people kidding themselves. There are no invisible gods looking down on us, no demons, no spirits or angels or ghosts. No fairies or goblins or flying unicorns either. Nothing that's supernatural, all of it is made up." He faltered, thinking it sounded too... much. But he pressed his lips together, standing by his conclusion. "That's it. That's what I believe."

"Okay," she said. Her gaze was back among the clouds, he had no idea what she was thinking. With Brittany, that had always been hard. All too often she didn't seem to be thinking at all.

"A lot of people really do believe in God though," Kurt added. "I could be wrong." Why he kept pressing that point, he didn't know. "But I really, really don't think I am." Just to make that clear.

"God is a pretend person?" Slowly, like she was trying to wrap her mind around it.

"Mhm," he confirmed. Oh, but Mercedes would hate this.

"What happens when you die?"

"Then you're dead." Obvious.

"Okay," she nodded, didn't protest.

"It doesn't sound very nice," Kurt allowed. "And you don't have to agree with me, but isn't it better to face reality as it really is? Even if... even if it sometimes makes you sad?"

"Is it a game?" She frowned, annoyance in her voice.

"Is what a game?"

"This is true, this is made up." She held her upturned palms like two sides of a scale, weighing air. "What's the difference?"

He wasn't sure what she was trying to say.

"I guess... people tell stories to make sense of things," Kurt said. "I'm not saying it's _bad._ Fairytales are nice, books and movies - musicals. Life would be pretty terrible without them, but there's a difference between fact and fiction."

"But how can you _tell_?"

"Oh, sorry." He got her question now. "Basically..." He was thinking as he spoke, trying to be as clear as he possibly could. "You should have good reasons to believe what you believe. If people tell you to believe something because of _no_ reasons, then you probably shouldn't. Believe it, I mean. Because it's probably not true."

Eloquence. Sometimes he had it, sometimes not.

"But how can you _tell_?" Same question, same intonation.

"That's it," Kurt shrugged, helpless. "You use evidence. And... and critical thinking."

"What's critical thinking?"

Asked Brittany.

"Um." Wow, she didn't have a clue. "Critical thinking is this thing when you... " Gah, what _was_ critical thinking? "It's those rules and techniques... that you use to figure out what you should believe. Like, what's probably true."

"Awesome." No inflection whatsoever. "Tell me how to do it."

"It's complicated. You have to..."

Phrases he barely understood flitted through his brain. _Logical fallacies... cognitive dissonance... post hoc_... something or other. Snippets of philosophy he'd managed to pick up when watching atheists and Christians debate online. Oh, Russell's Teapot, _you can't prove a negative_. Did that count? Could he explain that one without confusing her with dwarfs?

Alright, no. He so didn't know this stuff well enough to teach it to anybody.

The closest he'd come to actually studying the subject might have been this thing he'd written for Mr. Turner's ancient history class. An essay on Alexander the Great that had prompted Kurt to wade into waters such as _independent verification, contemporary sources, collaborative evidence_ \- methods actual historians used in their real line of work. He'd gotten the paper back with a big red A on the front and, even better, Mr. Turner had scrawled a comment underneath which read, _This is college level reasoning. Well done, Kurt_. Kurt was pretty damn proud of that comment. He suspected he'd keep on being proud of that comment for the rest of his life, no matter what his future accomplishments might entail.

Now if history - or any subject, really - was something Brittany was even slightly proficient in, it was more than Kurt was aware. Not to be mean or anything, but he'd always assumed the only reasons Brittany even got by in school were cheerleading, Santana, and the skin of her teeth. In that order. That, and a positive can-do attitude and charming... crayon... drawings.

Hello-o.

"Brittany!" Kurt called out, alight with discovery.

"That's me!" She grinned back at him.

"You _do_ know some things about critical thinking. I read your report on heart attacks, remember. It was really good. Thanks for giving it to me by the way." In Kurt's judgment, it had been an excellent report. Clear and informative, even the crayon drawings had been impressive, in their own way. Actually... um. How to ask this delicately? "Did you write it yourself?" Never mind.

"Yes."

Yes? Really? Yes?

"You researched heart attacks on your own?"

"Yup." No hesitation.

"What would you say if somebody told you that smoking was good for the heart?" Kurt just tossed the question out there, a fisherman testing the waters.

"It's not," she said. "Smoking is one of the main known contributors to heart attacks. If you're a smoker and you have a heart attack you should stop smoking immediately."

Wow. Scary. It was almost like she'd turned into a different person, somebody with a large vocabulary who was speaking with cocksure assurance. Or maybe she was just quoting from somewhere else - she did seem to do that a lot.

"How do you know that?" Kurt asked. It was a clever question, if he'd say so himself. It would force her to _think._

Brittany pursed her lips. "Doesn't everyone know that smoking is bad for the heart? It even says so on the cigarette packages."

So it did. But she'd sounded so... he should just ask. "Brittany, do you spend a lot of time reading about medicine?"

Reading about medicine, who'd do that to themselves? Well, except for someone who dreamed about becoming a doctor or a nurse. A doctor or a nurse? Yes, thank you, two examples of jobs that Kurt would never, ever want. Sure, it was essential and laudable work, but no, absolutely not. He'd spent enough time in hospitals, he couldn't imagine having to do it day after day after day for the rest of his life. Even just talking about this whole smoking-and-heart attack business was starting to make him feel kind of queasy. Except Brittany was nodding and smiling, like yes, she _did_ read a lot about medicine, yes.

"I can be a responsible cat owner by learning about cat diseases," she said. "So the man who sold kittens said."

"Really?" Cat diseases? That was a grim sort of hobby. Kurt never would have guessed. He shook his head. That's what he got for jumping to conclusions about a person. "How do you find things to read?" he asked, to bring it back to the critical thinking thing. "Like, books... articles?"

"The librarian showed me where to look. She says medical journalism is subpar. She says I should look at the best research available."

"Exactly!" This was perfect. Wait. "Do cats get heat attacks?"

"Yes, but don't worry, I translated it to human."

"Transl..." Gah, don't ask. "What I mean to say is, you've probably heard about medical frauds? Like, miracle cures that are really just water. Or..."

"Acupuncture," Brittany supplied.

"Yes. No. What?" Now, _that_ threw a wrench in front of his train of thought. He squinted at her. "Acupuncture _works_."

Brittany raised both of her eyebrows. "How?"

"How? The needles stimulate the blood circulation. And... stuff."

What stuff, Kurt wasn't sure. He was well aware that there was some traditional Chinese explanation about... kinetic energy or somesuch. Largely speculation, as far as he was aware, though it did seem to be based on some real observable fact. Since acupuncture _worked_. He'd _never_ heard that it might not work.

Well, okay. His dad might have expressed such an opinion once or twice, but that was just because his dad hadn't looked into it. Sure, acupuncture might sound a bit strange at first, but...

Brittany was wearing a small, patient smile.

"A lot of people are helped by acupuncture," Kurt said. "It's a treatment for pain, and sleep deprivation, and..."

"There's been tests," Brittany said. "It doesn't make a difference where you place the needles, or even if they pierce the skin or not. It's been tested with fake needles."

"Seriously? It's been tested?"

"Yes," Brittany said. "Acupuncture doesn't cure diseases, it just makes you feel slightly better for a while - for some people, some of the time. Probably because of the placebo effect. Except the placebo effect doesn't work on cats."

Or on somebody who's in a coma.

Brittany sounded thoughtful. "I'm not sure, but acupuncture might also make you feel better because of chemicals the brain releases when stressed. Being pricked by needles can be stressful, and it's not without risks. You shouldn't do it to children, or to cats and other animals."

Or to anybody who's in a coma.

Kurt slumped, staring down at his lap. Brittany was making so much sense. So. Much. Sense. Turns out acupuncture might not work. Turns out he might have gotten his dad pierced with needles all over his body for nothing. His dad's face, even his scalp had been filled with needles. Kurt had looked away during most of the procedure, telling himself that he shouldn't be squeamish, this would work, this had to work. And then he'd gone ahead and had the exact same thing done the next day.

Never in a million years would his dad have allowed it if he'd been conscious.

Note to self: Your dad. Can never. Know.

Second note to self: You're an idiot!

Third note to self: Look into acupuncture. Maybe Britt had it wrong and maybe it did work after all.

Though it probably didn't. Idiot!

"Britt," Kurt sighed. "You're a genius, I'm an idiot, the end." He pouted at her, forlornly.

"You're not an idiot," Brittany said, her face expressionless. "People believe in things for no good reason all the time. It's normal." Then she smiled, slow and sparkly-eyed.

Kurt snorted, and covered his eyes with his hands. Made whimpering sounds, somewhere between tears and laughter. He wasn't even putting on a show. It had been a long day, alright, and it wasn't even lunchtime yet. Brittany patted his hair, rubbed the back of his neck.

"Poor kitty," she crooned. "Poor little dear."

"I'm not a cat," Kurt complained.

"Yes you are, yes you _are._ " She firmly scratched at the hair on the back of his head. It wasn't unpleasant, but then she stuck both her hands into his hair and ruffled.

"Wah!" he squawked, pushing her hands away.

She was looking at his ruffled state with the broadest, most honest grin he'd ever seen from her. He couldn't even complain. Also, her _manhandling_ had gone a long way to abolish the image of a pincushion-ed dad from his head. So that was good. He straightened his hair, quick furtive gestures. Took an easy breath. He was fine, his dad was fine. It was all in the past.

"Kuurt," Brittany said. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not, silly kitty. What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I just realized I've been sticking my dad full of needles for no good reason. He had needles in his _ears_. It's upsetting, alright?"

Brittany's face was serious. "What did you dad's doctor say when he saw the needles?"

"He didn't!" Wah, the doctor! Oh no. It hadn't even occurred to Kurt to consult the doctor. Kurt's hands went back to cover his eyes. This was bad, so bad.

He'd... he'd practically _smuggled_ a turban-clad woo doo-lite _priestess_ into the hospital room, never asking for permission from _anybody_. And... suppose for a moment that acupuncture really _did_ stimulate the blood flow, that wasn't necessarily a _good_ thing, was it? How. Could. He have _missed_ that?

"I stomped on a boy's heart once," Brittany said, apparently deciding Kurt had spent enough time feeling sorry for himself. "He said he wanted to be my boyfriend and I said no. I didn't mean to stomp his heart."

Kurt glanced at her. "Or maybe he just said you stomped his heart to make you feel guilty for not sleeping with him, that's also a possibility." Wow, that was cynical. "Or I have no idea what I'm talking about," he backpedaled. "I'm being a smartass. I should probably shut up now, sorry."

She frowned. "You should just keep talking and not worry about it, silly kitten. And you guessed wrong. I did sleep with him, he just thought I shouldn't sleep with anybody that _wasn't_ him. And that's what stomped his heart."

"Oh. I can see that, I guess." Jeez.

"Except now I'm saying no to everybody," she chirped, like it was a happy conclusion to a story. She leveled a finger at Kurt. "And it's not because you told me to. I have a mind of my own, I can think for myself."

"You really can," Kurt said, feeling kind of humbled and well put in his place. "You have a brilliant mind."

That... might be a bit of a hyperbole. Or not. If he'd learned anything from all this, it was that he shouldn't underestimate Brittany. She was pretty amazing, so there.

"Do I?" she asked, mostly to herself, judging by her tone. "Nobody thinks so. No one thinks I'm brilliant."

"Then they're all idiots." He tried smiling to cheer her up. "Someday you'll find the cure for cancer, you'll make them sorry."

She reached out, gave him a pat on the head that was more like a smack in slow motion. "Mean," she said. "I don't want to find the cure for cancer. I want to be the best dancer."

"You can do both. You can be a brilliant dancer _and_ a brilliant medical researcher."

"No, I can't. Everything is confusing to me. I get lost in the alphabet, and then they laugh. I thought Santa was a real person."

"Yes. You really did think that, didn't you? But you're also a very, _very_ responsible cat owner. Meow."

That made her smile.

"Do you want to know what I think?" Kurt asked.

"I do. Yes."

"I think you should try to learn more about critical thinking."

"Is that good advice?"

"I think so. I think it's the responsible thing to do. And you did so well learning about cat medicine, I think you could be really brilliant about this as well."

See, he was just being encouraging, not trying to trick her or anything. Though he'd better not mention that really learning about critical thinking seemed to involve a lot of logic-type philosophy, which meant _math_. That would only put her off. It definitely put _him_ off. Euch, math, the tedium.

"Do you think you should learn more about critical thinking too?" she asked.

"Yes." Obviously. Sigh.

"Because everybody believes in things for no good reason?"

"Yes." Grumble, grumble.

"Like acupuncture?"

"Now you're just being cruel."

She snickered. "But it's funny."

"No, it's not."

"Okay, it's not." She snickered again.

"Brittany!"

He hid his face against her shoulder. The whole world was against him, the entire world and all of its people, against him.


	15. The argument from desire

**Chapter 15**

Kurt was standing by his locker, waiting for Mercedes. He couldn't help thinking that right next to him on the other side of the metal door, hiding in a pile of textbooks, was the Bible. His gift from Mercedes. A _bible._ Whatever. He felt more relaxed about it now. Well, it no longer felt like a ticking bomb. Possibly it was due to the discussion they'd had yesterday with Joshua, where Kurt had gotten to listen to Mercedes' side of things. Now he knew how exposed and vulnerable she felt about the whole thing, how truly sensitive _._

She'd given him a bible, and that was risky for her.

So. Kurt had to be generous. Obviously. It shouldn't be hard. He just had to remind himself that Mercedes hadn't given him the Bible because she agreed with every single thing that was in there. Even if she said she did, he'd still have to give her the benefit of doubt. Propaganda. She'd probably heard the words _The bible is perfect_ so many times that she thought it really was.

He'd be doing her a favor if he told her the truth.

No, he wouldn't. Shut up, shut up, shut up. She was Mercedes. It would be like kicking her while she was down.

Right?

Here she was now, walking straight towards him, smiling. Mercedes. She was so reassuring and radiant and _there._ A warm presence that made all his jittering reservations go away. She was wearing an atrocious leopard print neon top and he loved her, he really did.

"Hi," she said.

He smiled back at her. "Hi, you."

They moved over to her locker to put away her books.

"How was home ec?" he asked.

"We made pancakes. Again." Tone of amused exasperation.

Pancakes. The easy answer for a teacher who didn't want to plan anything new. The dodgeball of home ec. Nothing but a waste of time. No no, Kurt wasn't upset about missing out on eating a fluffy, fragrant pancake, of course not. That wasn't saliva pooling in his mouth.

"I'm hungry!"

She laughed, closing her locker. "Good thing we're going to lunch then."

See, this was good. Sociable small talk. They started walking, side by side. No rush, they both seemed to appreciate the moment to just catch up.

"How's your duet with Santana coming along?" Kurt looked at her with an appropriately frightened expression, and Mercedes snorted.

"It's… interesting." She pursed her lips, taking a while to think about it. "Santana really, really wants to win this. And you know what, I kind of want to win too." Wondering, like she hadn't expected that from herself. He got what she meant. For somebody who could be consistently relied upon to deliver jaw-dropping performances, Mercedes did have a tendency to get weirdly shy about fighting for her own place in the spotlight.

"You probably will," he said. Although there was no telling, not with whatever shenanigans Rachel had going on. Letting the new guy win. Please. They hadn't even heard him sing yet.

"We'll see," Mercedes smiled. "We won't hold back, tell you that much."

"Mhm."

"But what about you? Who're you… singing with?"

He understood her hesitation and her look, silently apologizing that she'd picked somebody else. Also, usually? She wouldn't have had to ask, he'd have told her by now. Kurt smirked suddenly, since this way he got to savor it, his little bit of shocking news.

"I'll be performing with Noah Puckerman," he said. Relaxed, nonchalant. Looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

She stopped in her tracks. Gaped at him.

Kurt chuckled. "I _know._ "

"No, it's just," she shook her head. "I can't see how that's even possible, you two working together. Without you…"

"Killing him?"

"Exactly!"

He laughed. She knew him so well.

"Turns out the secret of working with Puck..." Allow him to steal from you. "No Broadway. No looking at each other while singing. Tone down the sparkles." Damn. He hadn't meant to make it sound like that.

"Kurt!" And now she was all indignant on his behalf.

"No, it's okay," he said. Smoothing over. "We're getting along. Puck's been really decent, actually."

"Decent." Disbelief in her voice.

"Yeah. He even apologized for, like everything. How he'd treated me in the past. Everything."

"Mhm." Mercedes didn't seem impressed.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just…" She started walking again and he followed, keeping close to the wall, letting people who were in a greater hurry push by. "You know you can't count on him, right?" she said. "Puck. He's good at making apologies and making it seem like he means them, but he doesn't, not really. One step forward, two steps back. He'll always disappoint you in the end."

"Wait. Where's all this coming from?" It was so out of the blue. He'd never seen Puck and Mercedes express any big enmity for each other in the past. In fact, it had always seemed like the two of them shared a bit of an unspoken, friendly connection.

"Quinn," Mercedes said. Like duh.

They had to stop and press themselves up against a wall to let a group of rowdy guys holler their way past. Kurt glared after them, hoping to see them stumble and fall on their faces, all of them. Hooligans.

"Quinn told me once... if Puck hadn't been the father she might not have given the baby away." Mercedes was whispering, which, good. So not the talk for public consumption.

The _baby_.

Kurt wasn't sure what he would have done in their place. From the beginning. That is, he wasn't sure how he felt about abortion. On the one hand it was kind of unspeakable, wasn't it? On the other hand... why not? Potential babies were not being born all the time, it shouldn't be such a big step, opting to not have one. Except he was pretty sure that if accident had given _him_ a baby, even just the idea and the beginnings of one, it would have been impossible not to want it as well. That's how it was. The _baby_ was there, shazaam.

It was way too easy to create new people. There should be some kind of a license, some special forms and channels, a better way to go about this thing.

"Who wants a child at sixteen?" he said, mostly just to say something.

"Actually, Puck kind of did, remember?" Mercedes whimpered.

Kurt frowned. Actually, no. He did not remember that. He mostly just remembered Puck wanting _Quinn,_ even though she had technically been _Finn's_ girlfriend. And then she'd started showing more and more, and the whole thing had stopped being funny. "But if Puck had wanted… and even if he didn't…" Kurt shook his head. How about that? Puck was a father. "It had to have changed him. And Quinn too, obviously. But not just her. They've both gone through something _huge._ "

Mercedes was smiling at him, soft and indulgent. "You're saying I should give Puck the benefit of the doubt, is that what you're saying?"

"Sure." He hadn't really been aware of making some kind of high-minded argument, but sure. Second chances all around. Kurt smiled, only too happy to find himself right on top of the high road. In fact… "Everybody seems to expect him to be a total screw up, and that's not fair, is it? He deserves to have someone who believes in him." A sigh of condescending pity, laying it on thick, enough to make it seem like he was actually mocking himself. But not really. Mercedes would know what he meant.

"You're serious." Her eyes were wide and sort of wondering. See. She knew.

"I totally am. See this?" He raised his chin, fingers spread to serve as a visual frame. "This is a face of goodness and forgiveness. I'll bring great change upon the world. My life will not be in vain."

She slapped him on the arm. "Shut up."

Which meant everything was fine and settled.

She hooked her hand through the crook of his elbow, and they started walking again. Her cheek was close to his shoulder in a subtle embrace. It was familiar and at the same time not, since while he'd grown taller, she hadn't. They were trying to make themselves fit together again, still trying to find the equilibrium in their evolving relationship. Hey. That was totally metaphorical. Kurt was so clever, he was so on top of this, such an awesome bird's-eye view. He'd totally make this work.

All he had to do was not insult her religion.

"So tell me... how was the rest of your date with _Joshua?_ " (Sorry. That's how he had to say the name of someone who was _that_ handsome. He couldn't just not acknowledge it.)

"Okay, first," she squeezed his arm, making sure he was listening, "not a date. Second..." she grinned. "It was amazing."

He laughed.

"We just talked, you know," she said, a touch dreamily. "We talked and talked for hours. And I mean about the important stuff. And I was just... he _listened._ It was so freeing and amazing, I don't even know how to describe it. Why don't people do that all the time?" She glanced up at him. "Why don't we talk about the things that really matter?"

Hey.

"Hey. We talk. You and me."

She stopped walking, still holding on to his arm. Her face was gentle and a bit sad. "Kurt," she said. "We never talked about my faith in God. It was like this big part of me was never allowed to breathe."

"Mhm." Joy. Kurt kept his face pleasant.

"I'm not blaming _you._ " Emphatic shake of her head. "I'm trying to say that outside my home and my church I almost never talked about my faith with anybody. And why not? Because I was afraid that people would make fun of me."

"Mercedes, I'm..." He couldn't quite make himself apologize again.

"No, I'm getting this all wrong." She made an exacerbated sound. "Look..." She let go of his arm to gesture as she spoke. "If I'd just been more bold about my faith, if we'd talked about it a lot sooner, when we were both calm and ready to listen, then it wouldn't have been such a big _thing_ when it finally came up. That you didn't believe, I mean. It's my fault it got so weird between us."

"Ah. Oh. No. Things just happened. It's no one's fault."

"Yeah, but it was the worst timing ever. If we'd just talked about it sooner, I wouldn't have been such a... such a bad friend." She pressed her lips together, looking distressed. Calling herself a bad friend, oh no.

"It goes both ways," he said. Because it did. "I could have told you before now." Or not at all.

"I know." Her voice was soft. "I don't get it. How could I not have known such a huge, important thing about you?"

Would this be a good time to tell her that it wouldn't _be_ such a huge, important thing if it wasn't for her? No, it would not.

"I just didn't see the point of talking about it," he said. "I... I know how important your beliefs are to you. I wouldn't want to take them away."

"Take them _away_?" She snapped her fingers. Right, left, snap, snap, her sassy rejection. "Boy, nothing you say could take my Lord away from me. I _know_ he's there."

Okay. That was... both reassuring and disturbing to hear.

"I figured it would only lead to arguments if I brought it up," Kurt said, slow and careful. "When I was talking to Joshua and we kind of got into it, you said..." He couldn't remember. She hadn't liked it, that's for sure.

"Kurt. We could just _talk_. Joshua does it with his friends all the time. He told me about it. There are so many things!" Mercedes smiled, big and bright. "Things about our faith I've never heard before. There are so many _answers_ out there, it's amazing. I'm just so... happy. I don't know. Joyful. I've been thinking about it ever since then."

"Is he trying to get you to join a cult?" Snarky.

"No!" She rolled her eyes. "It's just... did you know that there are real, famous _reasons_ for why you should believe in God? Did you know there are people whose _job_ it is to write whole books about it, and travel around the country to give lectures?"

"Kind of," Kurt muttered. Um yes, he did know that. Those people were called apologists, and they were full of crap. "Mercedes," he smiled, tense all over. Gaah! "If we talked about it, it would just be me disagreeing with you. A _lot._ Why would you even want that? I think it's different for Joshua. He's probably been through the arguments a thousand times. He's, I don't know, immune. And I'm not very good at this. I just... I don't want you to be mad at me."

And the prize for sounding most pathetic goes to...

"I won't be mad. I think I'm strong enough in my faith to let you express your objections."

"That makes a lot of sense," Kurt said. Ugh, no, he was just being diplomatic, he didn't know what he was saying anymore. It did in fact make very _little_ sense. Why would he even risk talking about it if she wasn't going to listen? "I still don't think it's a good idea. Remember last week? I told you that God was a Santa Claus for grownups."

Huh. He'd felt so very, very guilty about that when she'd brought it up yesterday. He'd apologized, profusely. Now he was throwing it in her face without any qualms at all, because come on. There were so many worse things he could have said. Santa Claus was _mild_ in comparison.

"If that's what you think, that's fine," Mercedes said.

He glanced at her, a sideways look through narrow eyes. Yeah, right.

"I'm not saying I've changed my mind or anything," she said, twining her hands together. "I'm still glad you came to church with me, but I get that everyone is different." She smiled at him. "It's _okay_ that we're different. Please don't pretend with me."

Oh. That was... really, really nice, actually.

"Thank you," he said. "Same to you. You shouldn't pretend either." It was the right thing to say. Damn it.

"Alright then." Her face lit up, like she was about to start on about the wonders of God right then and there.

"Mercedes?" Kurt leaned close, whispering. Butting in.

"What?" She glanced around, making sure no one was listening.

"I'm _really hungry._ " He whined. Made a face like he was about to cry.

She chuckled all the way to the cafeteria.

The line outside was long and daunting, but that was of no concern. The lunch line always moved remarkably fast. He and Mercedes took their places behind a silent couple, a boy and a girl who were holding hands and smiling, oblivious to anything except each other. Far off into the land of commitment. Funny. He wondered if he and Mercedes could be counted as a couple. In a way. A platonic couple.

A platonic couple that was heading down the road of destruction.

He shouldn't be pessimistic, but let's face it. Neither of them pretending when it came to religion? _Bad_ idea. He and Mercedes didn't work like that, maybe no couples did. Couples supported each other, they made the other feel better about themselves, always. Sure, accepting each other's differences, unconditional love, all that. But...

Mercedes had told him in no uncertain terms that him criticizing her faith was an attack on _her_ , and now suddenly she was fine with everything that was going on? There was no way. Yesterday she'd accused him of calling her stupid. Somebody was putting her up to this, Kurt was pretty sure. Somebody with a name that stared with a J and ended with ochua.

"So," Mercedes smiled. "Could I explain one of the reasons for believing in God, and you can tell me what you think?"

"Um. No thanks."

"Don't be like that," she said, annoyed. "It's not a trick or anything. I just really want to talk."

"To me."

"To you, to anybody. There's so much. I should have taken notes."

Grawr.

"Are you meeting Joshua again?"

"Maybe." A secretive singsong. Ah. She wasn't sure. Kurt wished... not. For _her_ sake. Joshua was clearly messing with her mind, giving her endless lectures, making her hang off his every word. How condescending and overbearing of him.

"Hello, guys." A soft greeting. Oh, hey. It was Tina, a bit further down the line. Providing some welcome distraction. She was standing next to a blond girl that Kurt didn't know. A friend of Tina's? She seemed nice.

"I love your boots," Tina said.

"Thank you!"

It was the first compliment he'd gotten on his (non-stripper) boots. And it came from Tina, who had a good eye and knew some things about fashion. Neither was she afraid to - in her own gentle way - let him know when she thought he'd made a mistake. Case in point, Tina was eying his sweater with a slightly confused look on her face, her head tilted to the side. Yeah. Kurt had been feeling self-conscious about it all day. It wasn't just that the sweater didn't go with the rest of his outfit, it also made him feel... unnecessarily bare. It was the neckline - which was _nothing to speak of,_ hardly went below his collarbones. So, bah. Forget about it. He didn't always need to wear a scarf.

"Lay it on me," Kurt said, spreading his arms wide.

"Dude!" A guy who was standing between them in the line protested, his voice loud. Whatever. Ass. Everybody was talking here.

 _Later_ , Tina mouthed, looking spooked.

Fine. Kurt met the complaining guy's eyes, gave him a flat stare before turning his back, determined not to look again. Familiar crawling in his skin. Ignore it and it would go away.

It didn't take long before Kurt had a tray and a plate. Meat patties, mashed potatoes, peas. Fried onions, yum. Don't mind if I do.

"It's just so interesting, all these arguments for God," Mercedes said. She was still on that. "Why haven't I heard about them before? Why hasn't our pastor talked about it?"

Kurt was filling his glass. Milk, filling his glass, not listening.

"It's not that I need them for myself," she said, smiling. Her turn to fill her glass. "I experience God all the time, I see evidence everywhere."

"Please don't say _look at the trees._ " Yeah. Please don't turn into an atheist joke of a religious person.

"What?" She glanced at him, a suspicious frown.

"Ah, nothing. Look, an empty table. I'll get it."

With some careful maneuvering, Kurt made his way to the table. Sat down. Euch, rickety chair.

Or uneven floor.

So. This was happening. There was no avoiding the subject. Actually, if Mercedes kept going on like this, Kurt wasn't even sure he _wanted_ to avoid the subject. Maybe he should just... see what happened. Mercedes sat down on his right. Kurt glanced at her eager face. Uh-oh. Argument for God, coming up. Kurt felt resigned (and a tiny bit excited).

Okay, see. There was this thing that he'd begun to amuse himself with pretty recently. Looking stuff up. Teapots. Spaghetti Monsters. Public debates - big spectacles of grown men tying themselves into philosophical knots trying to show how believing in the great invisible sky-fairy they'd learned about as a kid was the rational and scientific thing to do. That kinds of stuff. Call it a guilty pleasure, except not so much with the guilt and not so much with the pleasure either. Still, it was satisfying in an exasperating and repetitive kind of way.

He got that Mercedes felt enthused, but... um. Maybe he should warn her. There was probably a _reason_ why her pastor didn't tend to talk about those arguments in church. Because, hello. Smoke and mirrors. Pure misdirection. Seriously. Kurt could see right through what they were doing.

Way he figured, if you boiled it down, there were only three main arguments for the existence of God. They went like this:

 _(1) The world exists, therefore God. Design, complexity, fine tuning, design, design. The universe has a meaning and a plan, God is the uncaused cause who caused the universe to cause into existence. Don't you believe in the Big Bang? Ah-HA! See? The universe had a beginning, who could possibly have done it if not my God?_

Right. That was the question. Which god? Why did it have to be a god at all? This argument didn't lead anywhere, and it often got stuck somewhere in the minutia of science. The bacterial flagella (whatever that was).

 _(2) Morals exist, therefore God. You need God for your morals. If the atheists are right then we're all just bags of chemicals, sacks of meat, neurons firing in our brains. Would you rape a baby? You wouldn't? Ah-HA! God is the definition of good, nothing would be good or bad if it wasn't for God. Everything God says is right, and fuck you._

Kurt _loathed_ the so-called moral argument for God.

 _(3) God exists, therefore... Ah-HA!_

At which point the whole thing became sort of pathetic and incomprehensible.

Of course, there was always the possibility that Mercedes would come up with something that was totally delightful and interesting and thought-provoking, and anyway, that shouldn't _matter_. Either way, Kurt could discuss this with Mercedes without cutting her in half. That was totally within his abilities to do.

"Okay," Kurt sighed. He picked up his knife and fork, started to cut his food. "I'm not saying it's a good idea, but if you think talking about it is the way forward, then shoot."

"I'm glad you're so enthusiastic about it," she said snidely.

Oh. My. God.

Kurt lay his utensils down on the tray and put on a smile of fake enthusiasm. "Oh please, Mercedes. Please grace me with your wondrous reasons for why I should change my mind and start believing in God. I can't _wait_."

Mercedes sat frozen for about three seconds, and then she put her hand to her face and laughed, a rueful rush. "I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I guess I'm really nervous, actually." She looked down, bit her lip. "What if I get it wrong?"

Aw.

"Mercedes, that doesn't matter." Kurt's voice turned soft. She was _nervous_? "I know it's hard to put into words. This is complicated stuff."

He would. Not. Insult. Her.

"Okay," she said. "Just remember you don't have to agree with everything I say."

Uh-huh, he'd try to remember that. But also, he got this. He'd be passive, but not too passive. He would listen, above all, just listen. _Think_ before he spoke. Yes, good, that was good. Good plan.

Mercedes took a deep breath. "This is called the argument from desire."

Squawk?

There was a soft thud. Kurt glanced to his left, where Tina put her tray down on the table. Oops. Tina. Tina was here.

"Okay," Tina said. She took a seat, gesturing at Kurt, up and down his body. "Here's the thing. It looks like you're wearing two different styles that don't go together. The sweater is fine on it's own, but you... can't..." she fell silent, looking embarrassed. "I'm interrupting, aren't I?"

"Yes," Mercedes said. Rude.

"We were going to talk about God." Kurt kept his voice light. "And just for the record, you're completely correct. Guess I was having a minor identity crisis this morning."

"Wh-wha..." Tina's fake stutter. It sometimes resurfaced when she was caught by surprise.

"I just wanted to express something," Mercedes said. "It's just a thought. But listen... okay, I'll tell it to both of you. Let me know what you think."

Tina began to ask something else, but Kurt motioned for her to hush down. The stage belonged to Mercedes now.

"It's like this," Mercedes said, her face serious. "Humans are born with different desires, and we live in a world where those desires makes sense. Every desire has a real thing, something that fulfills it. We're hungry, and there is food. We are thirsty, and there is water. We want, you know..." She paused, then shrugged with one shoulder and gave a shy smile. "Sex. And that exists."

"I'm with you so far," Kurt said, puzzled. This was an argument for God?

"There's another desire," Mercedes leaned towards them, her voice rich and imploring. "We have a desire for something greater, something beyond all this. We want to be loved, not just by other people, but with a perfect, all-encompassing love that never falls short and never dries up. We want something everlasting, something like God. Do you understand what I mean?"

Yes.

"No," Kurt said. "I mean, m-maybe." What?

"That's it," Mercedes said. "We want God. Why would we want him if he didn't exist?"

Alright, no.

"Please," Kurt said. "That's just wishful thinking. Wanting something to be true doesn't make it true." Forget passive, he should just say what he thought.

Mercedes sighed. "What I'm talking about is a very specific desire for a very specific thing. We want God, we want to be perfectly known and loved. We want Heaven." She smiled, like that word made her smile. "Do you think we'd dream about it of it wasn't true?"

"Um, I don't know. How about _yes_?"

"Kurt! You know what I mean. We dream about being happy and living forever, because part of us knows that that's possible. We have hope. Why not put a little trust in that hope?"

"Because there is no good reason to do so?"

"Of course there's good reason. We want water, and there is water. We want food, and there's food."

"Without food we'd die!"

"And without God we would die too."

"Alright." Kurt rubbed at his brow. "Alright. This is nuts. What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to listen to me."

"I am listening."

She snorted. "You can't even admit to the possibility that I might be right."

"Sure I can," he said. Sure he could. "If God came down right now and said _Hey, I exist_ , then I would believe in him. I'm open to that possibility."

"No, you're not."

"Fine, I'm not. At any rate, that's not important." Kurt took a slow breath, feeling ominous. Damn. He was so going to regret what he was about to say. "Why would I even _want_ to believe in your tyrannical, homophobic, sorry excuse for a God?"

They stared at each other, sort of stunned. Ack. Too late, too bad. That tore it.

Kurt turned to Tina, who'd sat silent and motionless during the entire thing. Her shoulders were tense and she had a pinched look on her face. She glanced away when he looked at her. No support to fetch there. Mercedes picked up her glass and was drinking in a narrow-eyed don't-talk-to-me kind of way. Well, whatever. Watch Kurt not care. Please. The argument from desire? It _was_ nuts - and underhanded and dishonest. _He_ was nuts for letting it get to him even a little bit. Losing his mind. It was the worst argument for God he'd ever heard.

They finished eating in silence. The food wasn't very good. Even the onions seemed to have all the flavor fried out of them.


	16. On purpose

**Chapter 16**

Kurt was among the first to enter the literature classroom, and then he hesitated, standing in the middle of the room. He and Mercedes, they always sat together in the front. He should wait for her, act like no big deal. Right. After lunch, after the _disastrous_ ending to their conversation about religion, Kurt had spent the rest of the break on his own, feeling increasingly lonely and regretful. And now he wasn't even sure if she'd want to see him again.

He'd been rude to her about her faith, that was the high and the low of it. Why had he done that, again? What had happened to his well-motivated diplomacy? Would it have been so bad, letting her have this? Nod and shrug and say _That's interesting_ and _I guess I can see that._ Moved on to something else. Like literature class, one of the few classes he and Mercedes shared. They could have talked about poetry. He could have showed her his war poem homework and they could have puzzled over it together. Like, did he write it in his _sleep?_

Kurt glanced down at the folder that contained the single sheet of his (crap) poem. He was a soldier, he walked like a soldier, he dressed like a soldier. Uh-huh. Not on-the-nose at all. He wondered what Mercedes' war poem was about. Probably _God_. Fighting for God, killing and dying for God, glory, glory hallelujah, holy war. There would be peace on Earth once all the unbelievers were _dead_.

Aargh. He bit the inside of his lip, making it sting. He should just stop, stop being unfair. He should relax and _not_ saddle Mercedes with the absolute worst of Christianity. That's not what her religion was about - for her. It wasn't her version of God, not her type of Jesus. Probably. No, it wasn't. Let's not get paranoid here.

But. Okay, see. There was a bible in his locker. How was he supposed to forget about it when he'd seen it only two minutes ago, seen it every time he was getting his books? How come Mercedes could get away with having her own God, all nice and unassailable, when the Bible was right there? A blueprint for disasters.

Here's a question for Mercedes, riddle me this, riddle me this, just a question if you please. How was God _not_ a tyrant and a homophobe? Or rather, is God good, or is the Bible true? Can't have it both ways. Can't. Have it. Both. Ways.

"Hey, Hummel. Don't just stand there like a dummy." It was Puck. He'd picked a seat in the back, and he smiled, an easy edge, while he leaned over to knock on the desk to his left. _Knock, knock, sit._ Pretty much exactly like he'd done a few days ago in Kurt's kitchen, a bottle of Tequila on the table. _Knock, knock, drink_.

Kurt affected a longsuffering sigh and walked over to Puck. He placed his things - pencil case, notebook, textbook, folder with his stupid poem - on top of the desk. Pulled out a chair.

Um. What was wrong with this picture? Apart from everything.

For starters, Kurt never sat in the back. Sitting in the back of a classroom was pretty much the same as sitting in the back of a bus. Hello, why chance it? But above that, there was the twin desk kind of deal, the kind of desk that a kid in third grade named Oliver Sanders had called a _love seat_ and (publicly, vehemently) refused to sit next to Kurt. Never mind that it had been the teacher who'd suggested the seating, never mind that Oliver-too-loud-for-his-own-good had gotten detention for being such a little nuisance. Forget finding a boy who wanted to sit next to him after that. Love seat.

Except that was ages ago. Totally forgettable, didn't bother him in the least, not anymore.

He really should have worn a different sweater.

The classroom was filling up around them. Usual shuffling, resigned scraping of chairs. A few interested glances Kurt's way, but nothing hostile. Bored, more like it. As it _should_ be. Bah. He was letting ancient history get to him, making him reel and dance around the certainty that he was doing something wrong and any time now it would be discovered and the joke would be on him. Any time now.

A long-haired guy - Jake? - slapped Puck on the shoulder and sprawled down next to them. Jake seemed unsurprised at Kurt's presence, a relaxed, questioning look on his affable face. Weird, when Kurt only remembered Jake as an anonymous back-of the-class annoyance, making rude noises whenever Mrs. Johnson turned particularly earnest. Back of the class. Kurt didn't belong.

Next were Chris and John, two burly guys from the hockey team who didn't like Kurt and never had. Always, always glaring. Except now they just gave Kurt a couple of distracted looks and promptly started to ignore him. Accepting Kurt into their territory with good graces. Huh.

Thanks to Puck. It was his doing, had to be. Puck. Think about it. It was pretty great. Even singing duets with Kurt in glee. Oliver Sanders in reverse.

Puck raised his eyebrows, a quizzical _what's up_? Kurt shook his head. Nothing. Was he staring? Stop it.

And here was Mercedes. She looked at him, sitting as far from their usual place as he could possibly get, and her expression went blank. She walked past him without a second glance.

His fault.

"Hm?" Puck hummed. Kurt ignored the question.

He frowned at the empty half of the desk. "Where's your book?"

"Don't need it." Leaning on his elbows, Puck sank down in a lazy hunch.

Right. Too cool for books. And now Kurt felt like a dork just for bringing all his things like he was supposed to. "Let me guess, you didn't write a poem either."

"What poem?"

"Never mind, you can do it now." Kurt tore a fresh page out of his note book. It was a nice book and it didn't tear well, but he pushed the sheet of jagged paper over to Puck's side of the desk, followed by a pen. "Take this. Homework. You're a soldier in a war. Write." What? He was doing a good deed, helping Puck with his grades.

"Forget it." Puck barely moved.

"Don't be a lazy-bum." Lazy-bum? His _dad_ said that, back when Kurt had been like, eight. Uncanny to have it come out of his own mouth.

"I don't write poems," Puck said. Sulked like a little kid.

"It doesn't have to rhyme. Just write a few sentences, except chop them up into tiny pieces, a few words for each line. I wrote mine last night in ten minutes. It's not good, but at least it will give me a passing grade." Kurt opened his folder to give Puck a peek, then quickly closed it again. He'd rather not have anyone look at the stupid thing. Also, was he bragging about being lazy? Yes, he was. But only because he had to adjust his language to the audience, all that.

The room fell silent as the teacher walked in. Mrs. Johnson was a thin, tall woman, who peered around with cheerful wakefulness as she was taking attendance. Her first name was Dotty. Dotty. Without much preamble, she started expounding on love. Love symbols, love stories, poems about love. Much like Mr. Schuester, Dotty Johnson liked to work with themes.

"What's the most romantic flower, do you think? What kind of bouquet would you like to receive?" Dotty's armbands clinked as she gestured, always with enthusiasm to spare. She was a lot of people's favorite teacher.

Alice Thomson raised her hand. It was a new vantage point, seeing Alice from the back. Always opinionated, she'd been a frequent sparring partner to Kurt in the past. "Everyone will say roses," Alice proclaimed, like she couldn't possibly be wrong. Had Kurt been in the first row he'd be all over that. Daisies? Was Kurt a daises kind of guy? He didn't know and - huh, how about that? - he didn't care. That's what the back of the classroom did to you.

"Forget flowers," Puck muttered, eyes closed and leaning his cheek on his hand as if he was falling asleep. "Candies all the way."

Kurt pressed his lips together to suppress a smile. That was almost cute.

"Get to writing," he whispered, mock severe.

Puck sighed and rubbed his eyes. Then, going from zero to a hundred, he reached over and swiped the folder with Kurt's poem off the desk. A wicked smirk. "Just need some inspiration."

"Hey!" That was actually not funny. Kurt's personal, private things, they belonged to him and nobody else. He grabbed an edge of the folder, tried to wrench it out of Puck's grip, but to no avail. Puck had strong fingers. The thief.

"Mr. Puckerman!" It was Dotty. "And... Mr. Hummel?" It turned into a question at the end. Oh, great. There were quite a lot of snickers. Jake, the long-haired boy on Puck's right, was grinning and staring at them with unabashed interest.

"Sorry, Mrs. Johnson," Kurt said. He let go of the folder. What did it matter, let Puck have it. He clasped his hands on top of the desk and looked straight ahead, picture of the contrite student. Next to him, Puck began to read his poem. Crap. Well no, it didn't matter, who cared. Thief.

Dotty, from the front of the classroom, was talking about some particular poem, about it being a conversation between a man and a woman, yadda, yadda, meeting each other in secret. Wait, was that a _bible_ she was waving around? Oh, of course, she was talking about the Song of Songs. "One of the oldest poems we have," Dotty smiled. "Isn't it beautiful to consider that it's all about love?"

Oldest poem. All about love. Kurt glanced at Mercedes' back, her softly rounded shoulders. She'd said something just like that, back when she'd first given him the Bible. Did she feel vindicated now? Mrs. Johnson opened the Bible to read from the Song of Songs, her voice measured and slow, and hello. Several people were glancing Kurt's way. He wasn't imagining. First Alice, then Luke, Jennie, Susan Stewart, they were so looking at him. Oh-uh. Not everybody seemed to notice that something was up, but at least six or seven people were keeping their eyes on Kurt as if they thought he was untrustworthy, like he was likely to throw a tantrum at any time now. And Mercedes - turning around and giving him a slow, meaningful stare.

Mercedes. She'd told everybody.

He looked at her, her dear, familiar face, and no. Of course she hadn't. Of course, it had to be Ben Israel and his unmentionable blog. That explained it, made it a lot easier to bare. Kurt leaned back in his chair and raised his chin. Watch him. Kurt Hummel, exposed not just as an atheist, but as the kind of atheist that would turn to the school board to get teachers fired, beware.

And that was alright, wasn't it? That was an alright situation.

Let's be honest, it had only been a matter of time. The door to his non-believing closet had been _cardboard_ at best, and it wouldn't have taken a lot of poking and prodding to bring it down, even in front of his friends. Probably. True, there'd been plenty of opportunities to speak up, say something, and he still hadn't done it. Nodded along. When Mercedes would fall into random gospel lines, _Jesus, Jesus, blood of the Lamb._ When Rachel started her _spiel_ on Jewish dietary _pride_ , when Mr. Emerson the biology teacher said _it's just a theory_ and no one reacted, not even Kurt-in-the-classroom bold and bright, who _knew_ that piece of misleading language and yet sat there like a empty mannequin, nodding along.

 _Right. Like germ theory if just a theory, or the theory of gravity is just a theory. If I may, Mr. Emerson, you ought to look up the definition of "scientific theory". I don't think it means what you're trying to imply it means._

Is what he should have said. Is what he would say _now_ , come to think about it. Not to Dotty Johnson, of course. Literature class was where the Bible belonged, everyone knew that.

Mrs. Johnson turned the page, continued reading.

 _Like an apple tree among the trees of the forest  
_ _Is my beloved among the young men  
_ _I delight to sit in his shade, and his fruit is sweet to my taste  
_ _Let him lead me in the banquet hall, and let his banner over me be love  
_ _Strengthen me with raisings, refresh me with apples  
_ _For I am faint with love_

That part was actually not so bad.

Puck, meanwhile, seemed oblivious. It wouldn't be surprising if it turned out that he had no idea that they were listening to words from the Bible. He was _still_ looking at Kurt's crappy poem, smirking to himself. A snort of amusement, totally unabashed. _What_ had Puck just read?

Dotty moved on from the Bible - thank the metaphorical God. She told them about King Gilgamesh, living alone in the wilderness, communicating with the animals. And then the temple prostitute, tall and wise, "taming Gilgamesh with her love." Um, okay? Was that how the story went? And by the way, wasn't the Epic of Gilgamesh a whole lot older than the Bible? Yes it was, Kurt was pretty sure. Sure enough to raise his hand and ask a question? Just a polite reminder to anyone who might need it that, hey, the Bible might not be the first after all, no special status of ultimate primacy. Maybe he shouldn't. Duh, _of course_ he shouldn't. How stupid was he?

Puck poked him with his pen, then used the pen to point at the paper that Kurt had torn out of his notebook. He'd written one line. One line? Did Puck think one line was enough in anyone's-

 _knew you did it on purpose_

At first Kurt didn't get it, but Puck was making a comment about his poem, his _I dress like a soldier and talk like a soldier_ poem. Right. This again. Kurt scrawled a reply.

 _What am I doing on purpose?_

Like he had to ask, like he hadn't heard it before. His voice, his clothes, his preferences. His whole person, on purpose. Got it, thanks.

 _you look like you're gagging for it_

Pen poised to write a response, Kurt stilled. Okay, wow. Knife. In his back. He hadn't been quite ready for that level of insulting. Gagging. What a disgusting turn of phrase. Gagging. Gagging for dick. Gagging _on_ dick. Ugh. But it wasn't like he hadn't heard it before, those exact words even. It was his voice, his clothes. Not manly enough. Too feminine, whatever.

Like it was such a crime to dress to look good. Assholes. Not his fault he could pull if off, was it? And he could look good, he knew he could. Mercedes wasn't shy about the compliments, and Tina had once called him _yummy_ , so there was that. Even some of the insults were compliments on his looks, from people who didn't know better. Pretty. Princess. Fairy. Fancy. Fag.

Shut up.

How old had _Brittany_ been the first time somebody decided... what she looked like? Just for wearing a dress and looking beautiful. Or maybe just for being a girl, with all the girl parts and womanly desires and all it entailed. Not that it was wrong. Nothing wrong with liking. Dicks. That. Not really shameful if everybody looked at you and thought...

Who was he trying to kid? It _was_ shameful. It was shameful in the sense that it made him feel ashamed. Totally guilty. Since apparently he did it on purpose.

Right. How the hell did you spell _burka_?

Puck, leaning over to Kurt's side of the desk, wrote another message.

 _u mad? Sorry if your feelings are hurt_

Yeah. Perspective. Puck wasn't going out of his way to hurt his feelings. Puck was merely sharing his honest opinion. Joy.

Kurt opened his pen case and got out a highlighter. Went back one step in the conversation and bathed the problematic sentence in bright yellow. _You look like you're gagging for it._ The smell of highlighter in his nose. It felt like he'd taken a stand. Puck, please read what you've just written.

Puck sighed. Pulled the sheet of paper over to his side to write his response. When Kurt got to see, it was pretty disappointing, all in all.

 _dude, you look however you want to look. Just let it go._

Let it go. No problem, why not, this was just his _life_ they were talking about. Kurt wrote, carving each word with incredulous inevitability.

 _What do you suggest I should change about myself in order to look less like I'm gagging for it?_

It was an accusation disguised as a question, sure, but he was also curious to see what Puck would say.

 _are you asking me how to be less gay? thought you were supposed to be proud and shit_

Right. This was going nowhere. Kurt crumpled the paper to a tight ball. He was making noise, disturbing the class, he didn't care. He pushed the paper into a pocket to get it out of the way. Looked away from Puck, to the poster of Shakespeare on the wall, the bookcase filled with old lexicons of encyclopedias. Was Puck feeling guilty? Well, let him sit in silence and stew in to for a while.

Dotty rounded up the lesson. Before the bell rang she remembered to tell everyone to hand in the results of their war poetry homework, of which of course Puck had nothing. He'd squandered his chance. Lazy-bum. Kurt got to his feet and, giving in to impulse, he raised his folder and gave Puck a firm _whack_ on the back of his stupid half-shaved head. Puck honked in protest, his arms flailing about. Jack, watching from the side, was laughing like it was prime entertainment. It made Kurt feel tired.

He handed in his homework which Dotty accepted with a benevolent smile. (Did she knew her bible reading was slightly controversial? Did she care? Who knew). Turning around from the teacher's desk he could see that Puck's seat was empty, he'd already taken off.

* * *

He found Puck outside the literature classroom, having what seemed to be a genial game of... fisticuff with one of the hockey players. Pushes, punches, and mutual grins. Kurt would _never_ understand the casual violence of boys. The girls leaving the room before Kurt - Alice and Susan - tucked in their chins and continued on their way - which was the _normal_ reaction. Kurt should leave. He'd deal with Puck later. He'd...

Oh.

Kurt's body made a curious little _jolt_ , and he found himself backing away and spinning around and walking away, away. Skittish, scaredy cat. Just because he'd seen Karofsky and Azimio further down the hall, like he saw them almost every day, nothing out of the ordinary. He'd met Karofsky's eyes over the distance, just for an instant, and _nothing would have happened_ , not here in the open with everyone else around. And yet here he was, running away.

"Hey, wait up." It was Puck.

No. Nuh-uh. Kurt kept walking, Puck following in his heels, because he could get _no privacy_ here. Kurt didn't stop until he was randomly outside the door to the astronomy club, still with his back towards Puck, _trembling_ almost. This was ridiculous. They were at _school._ There were rules, friends, teachers. No one had died, and Kurt hadn't done anything wrong. But he shouldn't be surprised. He was being singled out and hunted down and persecuted, no joke. Karofsky had made it his business, that wasn't news. He shouldn't be confused that his body was scared.

"You saw them back there, didn't you?" A neutral question. Puck thought he was being discreet.

"I'm fine. I'm not scared." Which was a _moronic_ thing to say, especially in such a breathless, high-pitched voice. Kurt hugged his books, edges cutting into his skin through his sweater. Puck, go away.

Puck leaned closer, twisting his neck to get a better look at Kurt's face. Then he straightened, all business. "Yeah, you look like you're about to cry. What'd Karofsky do now?"

"Nothing. Shut up." Kurt felt his lips curl. Scorn. Scorning himself. This was all so revealing and pathetic. He'd caught a _glimpse_ , that was all. Scaredy cat. Enough with the _sympathy_ already _._

"Thought so. Hey. Come here."

An heavy arm around his shoulders. Puck was holding on to him - _holding on to him?_ He was close enough to _smell._ Sweat from Puck's armpit. Smelled like... sweat. Kurt twisted to get out of his grip, but for a second Puck wouldn't let him. And then he did let go, but only after that bit of power display. Of course. Even when Puck was trying to be nice he did it in the manner of a bully.

"Nothing happened." A toneless statement. He gave Puck a cool stare. "Nothing out of the ordinary anyway. Just a dumpster toss, but that's nothing, right? You don't care. I'm just stupid for letting it get to me."

"Hang on-"

"Go away."

"No, I don't think I will. Besides, I promised Rachel I'd keep an eye on you."

Kurt frowned. "You talked to Rachel about this?"

"Kind of? More like she talked to me. She said Karofsky's been coming after you in a bad way. Which you already told me, but something happened, right? Other than a dumpstering, I mean."

Because that was nothing.

"Rachel doesn't know what she's talking about." Why would she? That was confusing. And Puck had no _business_...

"Come on." Puck stepped closer, but Kurt backed away until he was pressed up against the wall, and look at that, that group of freshmen, taking a detour, averting their eyes, hurrying along. Unwilling to get in the way of what looked like a bad situation. Hah! Hahaha, wasn't that typical? Poor, poor Kurt, he never could catch a break. It was so _funny._

Hey, _Puck_. Did you know that people are scared of you? Look at them. They think you are Karofsky.

"What?" Puck frowned.

"Nothing," Kurt said. "It's just... how are you different from Karofsky?" And then he put his sleeve over his face, snorting in amusement. Since it was so _funny_. "Maybe you're just the same."

"That's it." Puck pushed at Kurt's back, opened the door to his right. Astronomy club, spheres of color, papier maché celestial planets decorated the ceiling. The room was kind of dim.

"Alright," Puck said, once the door was shut and they were alone. "Calm down, get a grip."

"I _am_ calm," Kurt said. And then, because he was _fucked_ in the head, he tossed his books on the floor, _slam_ , and shouted, a wordless " _Aaaaaghh!_ "

Disturbing the planetary peace.

Puck laughed, backing away with his hands raised. Pretend scared. Yeah, Kurt was acting erratically, but that was fine. Puck had done worse. Way worse. See? It was all coming together. It was... okay. About Puck. There'd been a time when Kurt had _loathed_ him. Feared Puck back then, the sight of him there by the dumpsters, dark and sharp and merry, just reveling in... in whatever it was that fuelled a bully. Always there, always hanging after Finn, being in the way. Dragging Finn down to his level. All the stories Kurt had made up in his head, only some of which might have been true. Then Puck had joined glee, and things cooled right down. _Used_ to him, Puck had said.

Didn't that go both ways?

What did Kurt really know about Karofsky? Too hard pushes. Making threats on which he didn't deliver. Yet. Was it just a matter of time? Was it, was is, was it? Was that the truth about Karofsky?

"I want to talk to him." No, he didn't.

"Don't get any funny ideas."

"I don't even know him," Kurt whispered. Was that a lie? It felt like it might be, felt like Karofsky had managed to pick and push his way right underneath Kurt's skull and that's where he was residing now, intimate and ever present. Known. "He keeps threatening, but he never delivers. Oh, I'm going to beat your face in, _homo_. Oh, I'm going to crush you, you disgusting little _fag_! Well, if I'm so disgusting, why doesn't he get on with it already? He should just do it, beat me up! I'm tired of waiting. The suspense is what fucking does it!"

"Dude..."

"And now's when you're supposed to tell me he doesn't really mean it. He doesn't mean it, I should just ignore it, it's nothing. After all, what can I expect, I do it on purpose!"

"Hey-"

"I _am_ calm." Kurt closed his eyes for a brief moment. He was calm. He was very aware of the air in his lungs. He looked at Puck, staring without seeing much. "I just want him to go away, how hard is that? I have to talk to him. Alone. Away from his friends. Just him and me." That's how it had to be. Puck was shaking his head, but Kurt talked over him, had to get it out. "You could fetch him, say you wanted to... something. Bring him to me, then l-leave us alone. I could, I don't know, offer him something to eat, get him to stay. Muffins." Yeah, freshly baked. Got to be tempting. "Something to drink. And I'll just tell him. Ask him. Just please l-leave me alone, because- I don't know. Maybe he doesn't understand what he's doing. How am I supposed to tell? I have to talk to him. And- and what do you think? Maybe not cupcakes. That's stupid. Pizza? Think he'll stay if there's pizza? What do you think?"

Silence.

"Dude," Puck said, squinting at Kurt. "Is this supposed to be your clever plan to get Karofsky to back down? You take him out on a date?"

The air left Kurt's lungs, left him sick. "Shut _up_."

"You don't want to be alone with him," Puck said, matter-of-fact. "Girly guy like you, he'll pulverize you."

"Did you hear me say I wanted a cage match!" And screw you, Puck.

"No, I get it." Soothing. "You want to reason with him, I'm just saying it's useless. Seriously. Karofsky used to be fun, at least some of the time, but now he's just a moody asshole."

That made no sense. "He's always been like that."

"No, I'm telling you. He used to be able to take a joke, now all he does is blow up in people's faces. I've even seen him and Az duking it out, and those two have been like, joined at the hip since forever."

Huh.

"Do you know where he lives?"

"No."

"Can you find out?"

"Why?" Impatient.

"Because I want to talk to him." Eye on the prize. Kurt could go to his house, waving a white flag. No one around to call it a date. "Forget about the pizza."

"And the cupcakes."

"I just need to open up a channel. Something more constructive than..." He should try. No one _wanted_ to become a bully.

"Don't you get it?" Puck smacked his hands together in front of Kurt's face. _Wake up._ "Karofsky doesn't like you. You have no idea what he says when you aren't around. About you."

"Great." Kurt felt a twinge in his chest, a _ping_ like terror. He ignored it. "Let me guess, it's about - oh, I don't know - how I'm _gagging for dick_? Something like that. Remind me again about the great, big difference between you two."

"Are you for real?" Puck leaned closer, pleading for understanding, maybe. It mostly looked like anger. "The _difference_ is that I'm on your side."

"That means nothing to me." Well, it meant something. It just wasn't relevant right now. "Why didn't you write a poem?"

"The fuck?"

"You stole mine." That mattered. "I think it would only be fair if I got to read yours. But you don't have one, so." So. Puck would be forever in his debt, obviously. First his TV, then his personal thoughts. Thief.

Puck was in a huff, pacing back and forth, arms swooping. "You've lost it," he said. "Just so you know - lost it! But fine, if that's what it would take. A poem." Huff. "Okay, fuck. I'll do it. Hold on."

Some more huffing and agitated turning in place. It was amusing, honestly. Puck had never seemed less like himself. Then the other boy bent his knees and he jumped, one leap of pretty impressive prowess, to land on top of a desk. Standing straight and looking down at Kurt. His head was level with Jupiter. Saturn? The one with the rings.

"Oh Captain, my Captain," Puck intoned. Put a hand over his heart, dorking it up.

Kurt laughed, since apparently he was _that_ easily charmed. It was a scene from _Dead Poets Society_. That movie. They'd watched it in Dotty's class last year. Puck had been sitting in the back, sneering and disturbing the mood, though it seemed some of the movie had still left an impression.

"This is my poem." Puck crossed his arms, paused. Uncrossed his arms. His gaze was steady. "Listen. I think I'm going to join the army. Not a joke, it's just the way it is. Me and Finn, we used to talk about it all the time. His dad, he did it. And now me - after I graduate, I mean. Funny how things work out."

"Wow. That's..." Kurt wasn't sure what that was. It was huge, kind of too huge to deal with all at once. "Could you maybe come down from there?"

"I'm not done yet." Puck took a deep breath. "I shouldn't have taken your TV. It was messed up and I'm sorry, okay? The reason I took it..." He worked his jaw, and his voice turned short and harsh. "My dad's been sniffing around, vying for money. Said he'd go to mom, but _she_ doesn't have any to spare. I have a _sister_. You don't know. I just wanted to get it over with."

"Oh." Oh damn. "Did it work?" How could it? It was just a TV, couldn't be worth that much.

"Did the bastard move on, you mean? Yeah. For now." Puck rubbed a hand over his face. "It's... you think I thought it was _cool_ , doing stupid stuff that might get me in trouble with the police? It could ruin my life. _And_ my mom's. I want to be better than that." His voice turned low. "I'm better than my dad."

"Alright. Um." What now? Maybe Kurt should pick a desk of his own, scale it like Puck in one seamless bound? No. He _could_ , but no. There were enough people up by the ceiling. He sat down on top of the desk instead, and motioned for Puck. _Down, down._

Obediently, Puck sank down to Kurt's level, sitting cross-legged on the desk, elbows on his knees. A mischievous pose that reminded Kurt of Puck. Shakespeare Puck that was, Puck from a _Midsummer Nights Dream_. The one from the movie, whatever.

"Okay," Kurt said. "First of all, I believe you. About everything you just said. Second of all..." Going for wide-eyed and earnest. "I take it back, all those times I told you that you were bound to end up with an unsightly beer gut and prison tattoos all over your face. Sorry about that."

A surprised huff. "I don't think you ever said that to me."

"No?" Kurt blinked. "Then I apologize for the _numerous_ times when I thought it in my head, but graciously kept it to myself."

"Hah!" Puck laughed. "You're a riot, you know that?"

"Yeah." Kurt nodded, slow and thoughtful. "A riot who looks like he's gagging for it."

Puck sighed, and his posture sank into a demonstrative slump. "Move past it, _please_. It was a stupid thing to say. You don't have to take it seriously."

"I'm not so sure it was stupid. I think it's pretty valuable information, actually." This was Kurt not letting it go. He leaned back on his hands, making himself comfortable on top of the desk. Or posing like a model. A bit of both. "Look at me, please." He raised his eyebrow at Puck. "What part screams _gagging for dick_ to you? Because believe it or not, that's actually not the look I'm going for."

"Like you don't know." Puck sounded amused. "Face it, Hummel, you're a one man pride parade, all day, every day. People give you shit, they tell you to tone it down, and what do you do? You say, fuck it, and you turn it up to eleven. You're totally doing it on purpose." He shrugged. "And more power to you."

"Well," Kurt said, mollified. "That's flattering, in a backhanded, roundabout kind of way, but I don't think that's it. If that's all I wanted I could, I don't know. Wear a rainbow button, hand out flyers." He fell silent. So yeah, that sounded scary as hell, let's hold off on buttons, moving right along. "This is who I _am_. I can't help it, I'm just..." He gestured, palm up. Hardly had to say it. "I'm naturally this fabulous." When he'd been three he'd wished for a pair of sensible heels, so says his dad. It was true. Everyone could always tell. No choice about it.

"Phf," Puck dismissed. He pointed at Kurt's boots. "Gay." His pants. "Gay." His sweater - the neckline. "Gay." His hair. " _Super_ gay."

Kurt nodded, remarkably not pissed off. "Just because it doesn't fit within the tiny margin of what's accepted-"

"Dude, I get it," Puck interrupted. "People try to get you to change, and that just makes you want to do it even more." He pulled his fingers through his Mohawk, leaning his head back. Broadest hint ever.

"You did _not_ just compare my fashion sense to your stupid haircut."

"Yup. You heard me." Puck smirked at him. "You're just like me. You're gay Puckzilla."

"Oh my God."

"Should you be using that expression?"

"One problem at a time!"

"Okay, what's the big deal right now? Just tell me. What's the actual problem?" Puck fell silent and leaned forward, looking patient. Giving Kurt the space to express himself. Gah. Puck _would_ turn out to be a good listener.

"It's just, I'm tired of people just..." Gah. How to say this? Kurt's fingers made sharp angles in the air. Cutting in, caging. A box. "It's more to me than- than..."

Shhhh. Gagging for dick. That. Kurt looked aside, looked down. Checking out his own dick, hahaha. It wasn't _like_ that. He didn't stare in the locker room, no matter what people thought, no. Didn't want to. It was hardly the most attractive part of the human body, was it? Okay, fine, there was no denying that there was something totally fascinating - titillating - mesmerizing - about the bulge underneath some guy's trousers, between his legs, well, you know. That. Sort of mouthwatering in a this-is-within-your-reach kind of way. Gah.

Kurt exhaled. "Maybe my problem is that I'm just too pretty." Nooo. Ack, why did he say _that_?

Puck chuckled, but not meanly. He tilted his head to the side, considering. _Looking_ at Kurt, yikes. Inspecting him for prettiness. "Nah," Puck concluded, idly scratching the side of his neck. "I don't think so. Remember that I've seen you with your hair down, drunk off your ass. Sure, you're pretty, but not as pretty as me."

Ha! "And yet _you_ don't have a bunch of people around who keep telling you that you look like a girl."

"Ah." Puck frowned, looking baffled.

"I'm not trying to seduce the straight guys."

"Okay. I know." It sounded like acceptance.

"Is that what Karofsky's been saying?" Of course it was. "I didn't mean it as a letdown, you know, when I said you two might not be so different. What I _meant_ , sort of, was that Karofsky might be... not as bad as I thought."

Puck made a face. "Dude. Don't think it's a habit or anything. Just because I went a bit... sharing. Touchy feely stuff." An uncertain frown. He glanced up at the ceiling, to Jupiter up there. "I must have sounded like an idiot."

"Shut up. You were awesome and you know it." Talking to Puck as if he were Mercedes, that just happened.

"Um." Puck shook his head. "Whatever. You're still wrong about Karofsky. Trying to reason with him won't work."

"Well, we don't know that, do we? At least _something_ will happen. He might beat me up, that might be something." Kurt smiled, a bright smile that he didn't actually mean. But seriously, at least it would be over with. If the situation was unbearable, just make it _more_ unbearable to get it out of the way. It made sense. One way or another, Karofsky would cease being a problem.

"Do you _want_ him to beat you up?"

"Maybe he's not as far gone as you think." Yeah. Kurt didn't believe that. Karofsky by the dumpsters this morning - pretty far gone. Massive arms around Kurt's chest, squeezing him so he couldn't breathe. Not saying a word, that was the creepy part. He had no idea what Karofsky had been thinking. Kurt should have kicked him and kept kicking until Karofsky could no longer stand.

"We could gather all the guys in glee." Puck said. "Beat _him_ up."

"I fail to see how that would solve anything." Speaking sharper than he probably should have, when Puck was just trying to help. "It's my business. I've always dealt with it on my own."

"How? By pretending it wasn't happening?"

"It's not like that." Stupid, simple-minded, perceptive... "And if it _were_ , at least I'm not pretending anymore." Oh. Yes. Genius. That was it. All his secrets were out. About anything and everything, he wasn't about to pretend. "My dad will be home soon."

"Which means?"

"Which means I have a deadline." He leaned forward, hopeful, excited. Kurt... by the time his dad came home, he'd have it sorted. The person his dad _thought_ he was, he would become. Fearless. Happy. Secure. He would never pretend again.

Puck frowned. "You worry me, Hummel."

"Shut up, I'm fine. I'm being smart about this." He had to laugh at the look on Puck's face. Of course, Puck didn't know. "Has your coach talked to you yet? I guess not. But word will get out." Kurt raised a fist up in the air. Triumph. "Dumpster tosses are no longer accepted at this school."

"Was it ever?"

"By tacit approval from the principal, it was. Until _I_ went and had a talk with Figgins and Miss Pillsbury. Things will be different from here on out." He leveled a finger at Puck, preemptively. "Don't try to take my accomplishments away from me. You're the one who said I should go to the authorities in the first place."

"And you said it wouldn't help."

"Because Karofsky hadn't _done_ anything yet." Yet. Hadn't done anything _yet._ No, enough, Kurt was being smart about this. Anyway, that was a problem for tomorrow. All Kurt had left today was glee, and then off to the hospital to see his dad. He glanced at Puck. "You're still up for that duet?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Great." Kurt hadn't really supposed anything else. "Do we need to prepare?" He looked down at his sweater. Couldn't be less punk. He should have brought that gray t-shirt from this morning, could have cut holes in it, safety pins, red paint. Costumes were a huge part of a proper performance. "Hey." He looked at Puck. "Do you have an extra shirt? Preferably clean, preferably not with a giant number on the front?"

"Sure, in my locker. Why?"

"I'll give you five bucks for it."

"Or you could just borrow it for free." Puck sounded stung.

"You might not want it after I'm through with it." Kurt graced his fingers over his hair, and stopped, hand still raised. _Super_ gay. Yeah. He might have let his hair grow pretty long on top, just so he could sweep it up in a convincing coiffure. But you know what? It didn't _have_ to be that way. He could get it cut. Not like he'd never wondered how he'd look in really short hair. Might be a nice change.

"What are you talking about?" Puck asked. "What're you going to do to my shirt?"

"I'm not sure yet." Kurt jumped off the desk. The words to their duet were running through his mind. A familiar rehearsal, his brain checking to see that he remembered. He did. He was so ready for this. "Come on," he said, grinning at Puck. "We still have time. Let's find out what kind if damage I can do with a pair of scissors."


	17. Punk on demand

**Chapter 17**

Puck entered the choir room about twenty minutes before glee was supposed to start. Four people were already there - Finn and Rachel, Santana, and Mercedes. They all glanced up to see who it was and then went back to what they'd been doing, disinterested. As normal with this crowd, there were no greetings for Noah Puckerman.

He grabbed a guitar to get something to fiddle with. Something that could distract him from his worry. Yes, _worry_.

Hummel had dismissed him with a flick of his fingers and an "I don't need you for this". As if Puck actually wanted to hang around and watch whatever the weird little guy was about to do to his old t-shirt. Still, he'd been sort of curious, so he'd hung around long enough to witness Kurt pull a pair of lethal-looking scissors out of his bag, all causal like. Puck had blinked. Wow. Clueless. Didn't he know people could be expelled for less? And then Kurt had grinned at Puck and raised the scissors to snip-snip at the air right next to his own hair. Like, _haha I'm cutting it all off, won't that be hilarious?_

It seemed like a joke, Kurt was playing it off as a joke, but it wasn't. Puck could just tell.

But so what? Why the worry? Kurt wasn't going to do it, first of all. The guy was way too vain to let anyone except some fussy _frou frou_ hairdresser touch his precious hair. And even if. Even if Kurt were to enter the room looking like a disaster, like a badly sheared sheep, fucking cry for help couldn't be more clear... even if that happened, it would in no way be Puck's fault.

Why was he getting himself all worked up, trying not to think about sheep?

Sheep.

Sheep shearing was fucking brutal, seriously. Puck had seen this documentary about Australia once, how the sheep went from thick and poofy to scrawny and trembling after the skin close snip-snip of scissors. And it might not have been like that - it might have been the pot - but in Puck's memory the thing had been thoroughly violent and unpleasant. Sheep being held down bleating and yowling in terror, patches of red against naked white where the scissors had nicked skin. Yeah. Figures that after all the war flicks and zombie apocalypses, it was a documentary about sheep that ended up giving him nightmares.

Puck looked up when Finn approached, shuffling his feet like he wasn't sure he was welcome. Puck gave him a nod and Finn sat down, an empty seat left between them.

"Hey." Finn cleared his throat. "Where's Kurt?"

Off cutting his hair.

Shut it.

"I'm not his keeper, am I?"

The funny thing was that he kind of was. Kurt's keeper, just from how things had turned out. A few drinks, a swiped TV, and Kurt had made him his confidant, the keeper of his secrets. His go-to guy. Tell the truth, Puck didn't mind. It was nice feeling kind of useful for a change. Providing he hadn't managed to mess it up. What, just by pointing at the dude's hair and calling it super gay? Kurt should hurry up and show. Put Puck's sheep-based worries to rest.

"You're still going to sing together?" Finn murmured, his voice low. He glanced over at Rachel who was in the middle of her singing warm up routine, eyes closed and dead to the world. Mercedes and Santana were talking on the other side of the room, not listening in.

"Yeah," Puck said, slowly. Yeah, he still was. What kind of stupid question...?

"Good. I mean..." Finn rubbed at his face. "You're being good to him. That's good."

"Dude." Aggressive, since what the hell? Puck wasn't anyone's first choice for a duet partner, and Finn knew that. If anything, Kurt was the nice one here.

Face fact. While everyone else in this club seemed to be all buddy-buddy, Puck was more often on the outside, left to wonder why he was even hanging around anymore. Nothing to whine about, just the way it was.

"I just..." Downturned eyes, wringing hands. Awesome. Guilty Finn.

"What?" Puck demanded.

"Okay." Finn looked up. "I might have said something stupid." He frowned, glaring a Puck. "And don't say 'what else it new.'"

"What else is new," Puck said, voice bored.

Finn made a resigned sound and looked down again, cue more constipated hand wringing. It was this mawkish wiffle waffle that made Finn such a drag to be around at times.

"Dude." Puck leaned closer, cut to the chase. "This is about you and Hummel, right? What did you say that was so bad, hm? You tell him to stay away from me? You tell him not to get us normal guys infected with his cooties?"

"Sort of," Finn said. A guilty murmur to his hands.

"No way." He hadn't thought that was it, not really. "Hope he reamed you a new one." Puck smirked. Yeah. Of course he had, you could count on it.

"No, I..." Finn exhaled, an irritated huff. Looked up. "I didn't mean to make him feel bad. It's just, I'm the leader, you know? I just wanted to make him _think_. About what he was doing. You know... to you. You know how it would look."

"Dude." Puck sighed. "This is glee, it's gay as fuck. Get with the program already."

"Shh," Finn hushed him, frowning. "You shouldn't talk like that. I mean... don't call things gay as if it's a bad thing. You'll hurt his feelings."

"Seriously?" What fresh hell was this? "Hummel's a big boy. He can take it."

"That's not true." Finn's eyes were wide and beseeching. "Dude, I mean it. He's like, really sensitive. I made him cry."

"No, you didn't." Hummel didn't cry.

Wrong. Last week he'd had a sniffle over his dad, but never mind that. Special circumstances. And talking about Karofsky did have a tendency to turn the guy into something of a blank-eyed mess, but whatever. Karofsky could scare anyone to tears if he really put his mind to it. But apart from that, Hummel didn't sweat the minor stuff. He got coldly angry and entertainingly insulting and if _Finn_ had managed to make him cry, then... then there really might be something to worry about. Goddammit.

"Okay," Puck frowned. "Just tell me what went down."

"Nothing. I don't know." Finn sighed, looked away. "We had an argument. About other things first, and then I might have said something about his clothes. Just, that they're, you know. Cliché."

"Super gay," Puck confirmed, bowing his head. It was like a conspiracy.

"Yeah." Finn made a face. "I shouldn't have said that. I messed up."

"Dude, that's just stating the obvious. You're allowed to tell it like it is."

Yeah, yeah, Puck knew he was being dense. What with thousands of sit downs with teachers and guidance councilors, words could cut, words could hurt, jibber jabber. No kidding. Fucking rolling their eyes at him like they expected nothing less and as long as no punch was thrown, what the hell was the harm? _Kids_ fought with fucking words. No one had ever done anything to really stop him.

"No, I'm not allowed!" Finn punched his own thigh. Whispered. "I mean, yes I can say it, but it's so unnecessary. Not like he hasn't heard it a million times before. People have been throwing it in his face all his life, of course he's sick and tired of it. And we're almost kind of family, aren't we? I'm almost his brother. I'm supposed to be accepting and stuff."

Woohoo. Here it came, Finn's guilt train extravaganza, destination Redemption City. It'd been a while since Puck had had the dubious pleasure. Finn was generally a pretty mellow dude, but he had an annoying habit of thinking the world revolved around his sorry ass. Why did Hummel have to break down and cry anyway? As soon as waterworks came out, Finn was a goner, fell for it every time. Get this - Finn's mom cried in front on him one time five years ago and Finn would never let it go, always talking about how he'd be better, how he'd never disappoint her again, never make her cry. Puck's mom meanwhile... you could forget it. She cried all the time, nothing to be done, not really. Can't let that shit get underneath your skin.

"Here's an idea," Puck said dryly. "Maybe everything isn't about you. Hummel might have other reasons for feeling down or whatever." Like Karofsky. Family troubles. Tragic lack of getting it on. Take your pick.

Finn wasn't listening. And then, right on cue: "I have to do something to make up for it."

"The thought of saying 'sorry' never occurred to you?"

"Don't you think I tried?" An impatient whisper. "He didn't believe me. It's not just about today either. He hasn't forgiven me for a lot of stuff, like stuff from forever ago. He really thinks I have a problem with... with him, you know. It doesn't matter what I say. It's like I can't do anything right."

Whine, whine.

"Dude, can you just be cool? Give the guy a fucking break. Maybe do him a favor and don't make a big deal." A guy loses it and cries in front of you, you shouldn't bring it up again, not if you didn't want to piss him off. Same rule applied for girls. Especially Santana. Learned that the hard way.

"No," Finn said, stubborn. "I have to do something. Show him that I accept him for who he is. He needs to hear it loud and clear."

Puck snorted. Why did he even try? The fucking thing was that Finn had a point. Not about making a big production, but he might be right about other things. Or not - where the hell did he get off calling Kurt fucking _sensitive_? But yes, if the guy showed up looking like he'd gone to town on his hair with his scissors, then yeah. Proof.

Rachel called Finn's name and Finn lumbered back to her with the haste of guilt. Leaving Puck alone again. Alone and staring off into nothing. His left hand pressed down on the strings of the guitar, but his right hand couldn't be bothered to play. He was thinking about something Kurt had said after lit class, back when he'd been having that fit about Karofsky.

 _Nothing. Nothing happened. Just a dumpster toss, no big deal. Stupid for letting it get to me._

Fuck.

Puck seemed to have way too many memories of the little dude (he'd been really small back then) going into dumpsters. Always with the same prissy, fussy face. That's what made it so funny. Probably for Kurt it had never been funny. Well, clearly, if you thought about it.

Who even _did_ dumpsterings anymore? It was stale, had stopped being Puck's concern ages ago, but he would have assumed the targets had shifted to Ben Israel's brood and younger. But apparently not. Even as a third year and no longer skulking about alone - Kurt had friends, he was a member of glee, with Finn and Mike and even Puck himself, and still Kurt had been dumpstered this very morning. Like an hour before he'd sat down with Puck to practice their duet. That was pretty obnoxious, if you thought about it.

A few minutes on the clock and the room started to fill up. Mike. Tina. Britt. Wheelchair. Quinn and that new guy. Blondie. No Kurt yet. Shit. He should hurry up, with or without hair. Get the suspense over with.

There we go. Kurt, all but strutting into the room. And he was okay, Puck found himself smiling, it was such a relief. The funny thing was Kurt _had_ cut his hair. It was shorter, standing up in messy spikes or whatever, but it wasn't a disaster. It looked fine. Puck's t-shirt was pretty much transformed, bride of Frankenstein style. From short sleeves to long sleeves, scraps of the old shirt stitched together with rows and rows of shining safety pins. Kind of impressive, actually. The big question was where the dude had gotten all those pins. No, the big question was how he'd managed to do all that in twenty-five minutes. Some kind of clothing wizard. No wonder he looked so satisfied with himself.

"Kurt!" It was Rachel, sounding alarmed. "Your hair!"

There were gasps from several of the people in the room. Brittany and Rachel were rushing over to Kurt's side while Mercedes stopped a bit away, looking like she didn't dare approach the walking wounded. Hand over her mouth. Jeez.

"Did you... do that yourself?" It was Quinn, leaning forward in her chair. She looked really concerned.

Kurt nodded, a tense sort of delight on his face. Again with the gasps.

"Who cares?" Santana scoffed, crossing her arms. "So he cut his hair. Big whoop de do."

Hm? What crawled up her ass and died? At least she was talking sense. The dude was fine, no blood, no tragedy. No one should make it into something it wasn't.

"It's all part of the costume," Kurt smiled, easy and relaxed like he was casting off a role. "It's punk! What do you think? Yes?" He spread his arms and turned in a circle to be admired. Brittany laughed and the whole room seemed to brighten. Hummel was happy, all was well.

Kurt was the Golden Boy of glee club, hands down, almost everyone had to agree. It made sense. This was his natural habitat, and he fucking dominated. And welcome to it.

"It's... something," Rachel smiled, shaking her head.

"I think it looks great," Tina said. Pushed a lock of blue hair from her face. "Very punk."

Studs and buckles, black and silver. Puck would call the style metal rather than punk, but why quibble?

"Thank you," Kurt grinned. He bounced a few times in those absurd motorcycle boots of his. And what do you know, giving himself a haircut didn't make the guy look an inch less gay.

"Okay," Puck said, raising his voice. "Now I feel underdressed." He didn't really care about that, but effort publicly acknowledged, whatever.

Hummel laughed and bounced over to sit down next to Puck. They got a few interested glances, but that settled it. People went back to talking, laughing, preparing their own duets. Waiting for dear old Mr. Schue. Puck played a few chords on the guitar. Could hardly hear over the general dim. Inside his head ran the words to the beginning of their duet.

 _We don't need anymore mountains  
_ _because the trail builders  
_ _failed to give us passage there  
_ _so we can't reach the sky_

 _Mountain_ in this case was meant to symbolize something about society. Or politics. Or religion. Most likely the last one, but not necessarily. That was the thing about symbols, you could fill them with whatever. One word fits all. Maybe if-

"You know what we should do?" Kurt slapped him on the shoulder, all smiles and energy. "We should punk it up! Less _Oklahoma_ more..." He spread his fingers, _ta-dah_. " _The Clash_!"

Puck shook his head, smiling. "Yeah, no. I hate to break it to you, but..." You don't have the voice for it. "It won't sound good." Diplomacy, _ta-dah_. No one had to know.

"We don't care!" Kurt laughed, wild and wide-eyed. "We're punk. Crash and burn."

 _Punk_ obviously meant something specific in that newly spiked head of his. Which, the dudes in Bad Religion probably wasn't it, on account of dressing normally and having songs that weren't just about screaming and shouting. Still, fine, if it would make Kurt happy, Puck could give it a stab. Wouldn't want to sound like _Oklahoma_ after all.

"How's this?" Skipping to bar chords, Puck played the opening again. Picking up the tempo and making it as noisy as possible, even made a stupid electric guitar face to show that he was really rocking out.

Kurt clapped his hands together and _squealed_. Like a chipmunk. A happy little chipmunk. That was a new one.

"You're having fun," Puck observed, neutral. Stab in the dark, the little dude was flying high on adrenaline, just from the excitement of cutting his hair. It made Puck worry a bit about what the comedown would look like.

"I _am_." Kurt glanced at him sideways, dead serious all of a sudden. "And why shouldn't I? This is glee, I want to have fun. Otherwise, what's the point?"

"Got it," Puck said. He actually fucking really did. Sometimes you had to have fun, nothing to it, just go ahead and do it.

"Hello everybody." The sound of a throat being cleared. The Schuester, announcing his presence. "If everyone could find their places? Hello?"

Their little gang took their time settling down. Artie was spun in a circle by Brittany, Santana turned her chair sideways and Finn had yet to find his seat. Schuester was waiting, a smarmy grin stuck to his face. Puck noticed when their teacher's eyes landed on Kurt, lingered for a second and moved onward. Visibly deciding not to comment on his appearance.

"Today we're doing duets!" Schue called out. "Let's get started! And don't forget what's at stake. Free dinners at Breadstix for two of you! I want to see you give it your all."

A few hollers at that, of which Santana was by far the loudest. Schue grinned like he'd produced a miracle, getting them all fired up. Lame. Puck didn't get what the other's saw that made them think the guy was so great.

"Mr. Schue!" Rachel raised her hand. "Me and Finn would be happy to start off the duet competition."

Yep, time to sit in silence like good little boys and girls while Finn and Rachel went ahead and did their duet, which of course was some power love ballad, rehearsed down to a T. Piano Brad, as usual, was on _point_. The romantic two had eyes only for each other, holding on to each other's arms, sappy sentiment passed back and forth, their lips close and open like a sloppy musical kiss. If this was what Finn had envisioned him and Kurt doing... Well.

Puck could see it both ways. Singing with Kurt Hummel - he could see how that might make you feel bad, wrong, embarrassed, all that. Like if you dropped the ball in front of hundreds of spectators. Hard to let go. Doing a duet with the gay guy, there ought to be something inside you that said _hell no_. Except Puck didn't even have to try, there was nothing to let go or overcome, the feeling just wasn't there. So whatever.

Finn and Rachel's final note rung out and Puck joined the applause. Those two could really sing. Mostly Rachel, but that was a given. Puck was vaguely pleased by how well Finn had managed to keep up.

"Wow, you guys," Schuester said. "Setting the bar high, I see."

There were some good-natured boos. Rachel did a beaming little curtsy.

Schuester looked around. "Now does anyone else feel ready-"

"We're next!" Kurt was already on his feet.

"You call us ready?" Puck protested, but he still joined him there in front of the group.

"Uh-huh." Kurt stood with his hands at his sides, grinning at their audience.

Rachel was grinning back at them, but there were some dubious looks, all of them directed at Puck. Mike and Artie were squinting, looking like they didn't know what to think. Mercedes - she glowered, full protective mode. Puck winked at her, just for the heck of it, and her frown intensified.

"Okay?" Kurt asked, smirking at Puck. Messing with him. Having fun.

"Okay," Puck said, and had to laugh. Punk. Punk on demand. Okay.

He drew a breath and raised the guitar. Here goes absolutely nothing.

 _"We don't need..."_

Nope. They got nothing right. Out of sync. With the rhythm, with the music, with each other.

Kurt giggled and got half the audience to crack up.

 _"Anymore mountains!"_ Puck sang/shouted, trying to get them on track.

They got through the opening verse with a lot of laughing, only gradually finding their pace. But when they did, it actually didn't sound half bad. Probably wasn't very punk, whatever that meant, but it had more power than what they'd rehearsed, with harsher music and a lot more carefree. The glee club was totally sold at this point, smiling and clapping along. Helping them out.

Pretty awesome. Kurt's voice wasn't too bad either. Not his usual fare, but he was doing alright.

 _"We don't need..."_ Puck sang, forgetting that they were supposed to skip that part.

Kurt cut in. " _Anymore lectures!"_

Close one. Puck had almost said the banned word _fables._ They went ahead with Kurt's rewrites, about teachers who'd passed and left them lessonless, both of them doing a good job remembering the words. Although Puck had to stop playing for a sec, to roll his eyes and say, "That's so middle school."

Kurt laughed. "We don't care!" He raised a fist. "Becaause-"

They said it together. "We're punk!"

Okay. Wow. So now they did _bits_. But it got everybody laughing, and Kurt was laughing, and Puck felt like he'd done something exactly right, so never mind. They looked at each other and jumped right back into the correct lyrics, singing at the top of their voices. Having fun.

 _"I'm full of emotion  
_ _And stuff you can't contain  
_ _And you just want to  
_ _Flush me down the drain"_

Kurt pointed at Puck, a dramatic flourish.

 _"But you can't make me go away!"_

Not bad. All that shit Hummel had been going on about how duets were supposed to be a communication between two people, it suddenly made sense. They were playing out a scene, like Romeo and freaking Juliet, but why complain? It was fun.

Running on impulse, Puck changed the pace towards the end of the song, bringing it home soft and quiet, strumming the guitar as prettily as he knew how. Kurt went with it and they settled on a simple harmony, singing the same words in two different voices. It really felt like communication, the way it cut so close to home. It was fucking poignant.

 _"Don't sell me short  
_ _You've been wrong too long  
_ _Don't brush me off  
_ _Just because I don't belong  
_ _Pass me on by, ignore my cry  
_ _Forget me when I die  
_ _Just don't sell me short  
_ _Not while I'm still alive"_

Yes! Homerun! And there was cheering. Rachel and Tina were on their feet, Mike was grinning and clapping, shaking his head. Quinn - _Quinn_ \- was smiling at Puck as if he'd done something amazing. Puck laughed, unprepared for all the approval coming his way. But of course. It wasn't just the show being awesome, it was because of Kurt. Puck and the Golden Boy. In simpatico. Surprising everybody.

He turned to Kurt and reached out with his fist. Kurt stared at him for a moment, a totally derpy look on his face, before _beaming_ suddenly and raising his own fist to fumble his knuckles to Puck's. Really? It was like the guy had never done a fist bump before. Anyway, hooray. They'd pulled it off, this duet thing. Nothing had gone the way they'd planned, but with teamwork and improvisation they'd somehow gone ahead and made it even better.

And by the way, if Finn thought it would take a song and a dance to be forgiven, then Puck was obviously the winner. So suck it.


	18. Taking an oath

**Chapter 18**

And that's how you do it! Kurt took a bow before leaving the stage. Did bowing fit with his costume? No, it did not! Back in his seat he did a small sitting-down dance, _dee da dee dee, dee da dum_. That's right, he loved this. Music. Singing, performing, taking risks. Getting to feel like you were totally in control but at the same time right there on the edge, close to a fall. Like running on water, one wrong step and you'd sink.

 _Dee da dum,_ it felt like magic.

"That was such a nice surprise!" Mr. Schue exclaimed. "But what song was that?"

Hang on.

"Don't sell me short," Puck said. And added, blithely, "By Bad Religion."

"Puck picked the music," Kurt blurted, and then sort of shrank. Coward. Coward, coward, he was a coward. What kind of punk rocker was he?

"Only because it's your favorite," Puck said, voice teasing.

There we go then.

"Only because I was drunk!"

"Dude," Finn said, leaning forward to give him a stare a shade away from a reprimand.

Kurt stared back. Grrr.

Mr. Schue was rubbing his brow, looking pained. Was this about the teenage drinking thing? Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned that. But you know. Respect. Or something. Bragging, not just getting along with Puck, but getting drunk with him as well. Had to be some kind of scandal. Look a Kurt, living the life. Of a pseudo delinquent. Mwahaha.

"I thought we weren't supposed to pick songs about religion."

Mercedes didn't raise her voice, but it came through loud and clear. Everybody heard it and there was a definite _shifting_ in the room. From nice and easygoing to thoughtful and grim. And hello, this was crapping freaking serious. Decisive moment. Remember Ms. Pillsbury's warnings about not stepping on sensitive toes.

"It's a free country," Puck said, twisting around to give Mercedes a frown. "We can sing whatever the hell we want."

"No, we can't," Santana cut in, a derisive edge to her tone. "Just ask your new boyfriend."

Puck's boyfriend.

"No," Kurt said, "I... I..." What? Getting distracted there for a sec. He should make it clear that of course it was okay to sing about your faith in God, just maybe don't make it an assignment for _everybody_ , like Mr. Schue had done last week. Simple.

"Let's move on for now," Mr. Schue said. "Back to our duet competition! Does anyone else feel ready, or-"

"You're just scared he'll report you again."

Jeez, Mercedes.

"I'm not going to report anybody."

"Sure you won't," Mercedes said, impatient.

"Could we not talk about this." Quinn's chilling breeze.

Too late. Kurt could hear at least three different conversations starting up around him, getting increasingly more agitated. Spiraling out of control.

"I had the perfect song picked out. The perfect-"

"Have to watch everything we say."

"Too sexy, too religious. What can we even do anymore?"

"What about Christmas songs, is that allowed?"

"I don't think so. _Christmas_ , remember."

"Some of us aren't Christian, you know. What about-"

"He'll get reported-"

"Fired."

"Seriously?"

"It's the law!"

"That's it for glee."

"Guys, guys." Artie. He'd have to speak louder than that if he was hoping to be heard.

"What's even happening right now?"

Their new member, Sam. Great. Splendid impression they were giving, great image of positivity and togetherness for the new guy.

"Mr. Schue?" It was Finn, sounding unusually formal. "May I make an announcement?"

"No!" Kurt said. "I mean, I'm the one who should make an announcement." He should, except what? That he was sorry? Was he sorry?

That he was a traitor. No, he wasn't. A traitor.

"Everybody _sit down_!"

Holy crap, did that get them silent and gaping. Mr. Schue never raised his voice. And oh, hey. Kurt was the only one who was standing up at this point. He looked around, feeling meek, confused. Um. Okay. Puck - look at Puck - smiling at him with a great deal of wry sympathy, like _figures_ , and _that's how it goes_. Like a breath of freaking sanity. Kurt sank down in his seat.

"Settle down," their teacher said, scowling. Laying on the authority. "I'm the one who's ultimately responsible and _no_ , I'm not worried and neither should you be. Nothing has changed just because the school board got involved. Kurt hasn't done anything wrong."

Um. Thanks? That was really... pointed. Kurt's heart was beating like crazy, wow.

"What do you mean, nothing has changed?" Tina, hello. Did not sound happy.

"Yeah," Rachel said. "No offence," apologetic glance at Kurt, "but we're artists. We can't work like this."

Alright, that. Was. It.

"Listen," Kurt said. "You know what?" He raised his hand, palm out like he was in a courtroom taking an oath. "I swear I won't report Mr. Schue or anybody in this room to the school board ever again. Is that what you wanted to hear? Alright, I get it, message received. Anything you want to sing is fine by me. You want to turn glee into church, I won't complain. It's fine, why not? Hymns can be kind of _pleasant._ "

Um. Hymns _could_ be kind of pleasant, actually. That came out wrong.

"Glee is nowhere close to turning into a church." Mike, sounding impatient. From a guy that was usually so easygoing, that spoke volumes.

"That's what I'm saying!" Well, no. Kurt took a breath. Calm. "I know glee isn't a church, alright? That's why I'm fine with it being a little bit like a church some of the time." He smiled, probably looked weak and uncertain, but you know. Better. "You can still sing about God, okay? Nothing has changed. Seriously, relax, I'm over it. I won't run to the school board just because I don't agree with everything I hear. It's a free country, you can sing about whatever you want."

Kurt crossed his arms. Crossed his legs, gave a nod. There.

"That's what I'm talking about," Puck said, approving.

Come to think about it, Kurt had just echoed everything Puck had already said. Which, _free country_ might not be technically correct. High school might be a country all on its own, special rules might apply, but schhh. Free enough for glee.

"Yeah," Mike said. Relaxed. "I'm fine with that."

There were a few subdued nods and murmurs. Tina, Rachel, Quinn, all onboard. Kurt relaxed. That's it. He'd fixed it. Like nothing ever happened, back to _status quo_ , order restored. How's that for damage control?

"Ahem." Mr. Schue cleared his throat. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Sounded like he was getting ready to launch into a freaking _lecture_.

"Moving along!" Kurt hollered.

Not very polite, no, but it got everybody laughing. Even Mr. Schue was laughing, because most of the time he was cool like that. Kurt grinned. This was good. They were with him now, all for laughter and good will and _moving along_.

Ms. Pillsbury was right, it wasn't worth it. It was the music that mattered, the music. This was the best group of friends.

"Kurt."

That did not sound good. He glanced behind him, slowly met Mercedes' eyes. Yeah, called it. She wasn't smiling.

"If it's..." Mercedes began to say, and fell silent. She pressed her lips together, tried again. "When you're saying you're okay with glee being like a church... does that mean you expect us to be okay with you taking glee and making it into an... I don't know... an _anti_ -church? Saying it's bad and wrong and- and-"

"Seems fair to me," Kurt said. Flippant. Crap. He really couldn't help himself, could he?

Puck laughed, but he was the only one.

"Just to be clear," Mr. Schue said. "Everyone has the right to express themselves, but no one is turning glee into _anything._ I suggest we put religion on the shelf for now and focus on the task at hand."

"Like we always do," Mercedes said.

"Excuse me?" Mr. Schue blinked.

"No, I'm sorry. Could I just say this?" Mercedes stood up. Her voice wavered and her eyes glittered with emotion. "We put religion on the shelf every day. Just by calling it _religion_ we make it into something that's _weird_ , something separate - detachable - from everything else. It's not supposed to work like that!"

"I misspoke." Mr. Schue made placating gestures with his hands. "Not a _shelf_ , per se, but-"

"I'm a Christian," Mercedes said. "That means something. If I'm putting that aside, I'm putting aside the truest and best part of me."

"Mercedes." Mr. Schue shook his head. Sighed. "While I understand you're-"

"Just let her talk," Kurt said. Freaking let Mercedes have her say.

Their teacher paused. "Go ahead," he said. Made a gesture at Mercedes, an overly generous the-stage-is-yours gesture. Probably wasn't meant to be condescending, but was.

Mercedes sniffed. Glanced at Kurt for just a moment, telling him what she thought of his interference. Which was _not pleased_. Then she turned to the rest of the group, head high, face clear. Stepping up to the challenge.

"I believe." Mercedes' voice was calm and assured. "I have faith in God and I love Jesus with all my heart." She shook her head with a sudden smile, lightening the mood. "I suppose that's not news to anyone, but... who here knows that I sing lead in our church choir? It's true. I spend all this time in church speaking my mind, praising God, being _happy_. Everyone in there knows who I am. But here in school... it's like I'm a whole different person. It's like I'm ashamed. Or scared. I never even ask for solos."

A small squawk from Rachel, otherwise the room was silent. Staring at Mercedes like she'd given them a lot to think about.

"I'm done being silent," Mercedes smiled. She looked relieved, a weight lifted from her shoulders. "I'm standing up for my beliefs. I'm who I am and I'm not ashamed."

"Alright!" Kurt said. It was an exclamation of support. Shut up. This was Mercedes, she was being brave. It was inspiring.

"Whose side are you on?" Santana. Snide Santana, dammit.

"I'm not on anyone's side," Kurt said. Why did there have to be sides?

He tried to meet Mercedes' eyes, but she wasn't looking in his direction.

"I'm a Christian too," Sam said. He pulled his fingers through his blond hair. "My family goes to church. And I, you know, believe."

Mercedes sat down. She and Sam were smiling at each other. Huh. Were they having a moment? There was a slightly awkward pause.

Brittany raised her hand. "My name it Brittany," she recited. "And I want to believe true things."

Oh. Of course, the truth. Dang, had he forgotten? There _were_ sides. There was the matter about caring about the truth.

Mr. Schue smiled. "That's great, Brittany. Is that a boombox you've got there? Did you bring your own music?"

Now _that_ was condescending. At least it got things back on track and moving on. No more spontaneous proclamations. Brittany had indeed brought her own music and before long and without much fuss, she and Artie were on the stage, dueting away. They'd chosen The Everly Brothers, "Crying in the Rain".

 _"I'll never let you see  
The way my broken heart is hurting me  
I've got my pride and I know how to hide  
All the sorrow and pain  
I'll do my crying in the rain"_

They started off low key and stayed that way. Only slightly romantic, in an old-time movie star kind of vibe. They were good. Touching. Artie might never have sounded better and Brittany harmonized effortlessly. She was sitting on a chair next to Artie, hardly moving but graceful even then. Not a peep came out of the audience as they were caught up in their spell. Artie and Brittany. Pulling it off.

Too bad Kurt couldn't be bothered to appreciate it. Too bad he was occupied feeling depressed.

Yes, depressed. He felt wrong, like a failure, he wasn't even sure why. He'd resolved the thing, hadn't he? Taking an oath of fidelity. People shouldn't feel scared about stating their opinions in front of him. Hello, it had never been his intention to freaking purify glee of all God-talk, like that was even possibly.

So. So? He felt all stepped on, that's what. But what was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do when other people stood up for their beliefs and their _selves_ , like those were one and the same. Freaking making it impossible to complain. Like if he had a problem with Mercedes' beliefs, he'd have a problem with her. She saying her beliefs were the best and truest part of her, like she was one to talk, like that even made sense. Like if she fully embraced that part she called the best of her, she could never, ever be his friend.

Whose side was he on?

Britt and Artie were looking at each other and smiling, moving their heads to the music. Doing something remarkable, but Kurt couldn't be bothered. Too busy writing angry letters in his head.

 _Dear Mercedes. You say your beliefs are a part to you, you say it's important to believe in_ something _. Well, do you believe in God just because it's something, or do you believe because you honestly think it's true? It kind of matters, don't you think? Don't you think, don't you think, don't you think?_

 _Dear Mercedes. Is God always right? Is he? Would you listen to God before your own conscience?_

 _Dear Mercedes. Do I deserve to burn in hell?_

Stupid. She probably didn't even believe in hell.

Should it matter?

Should it matter what she believed, should it matter if she thought hell was a real place? Should it matter if she thought marriage should only be between a man and a women, because God? And wasn't it scary how they'd never had that conversation, how she'd gotten sullen and impatient whenever the subject of politics came up and they'd skipped that part, because who cared about boring politics anyway when you could just have fun getting along, and it _shouldn't matter_. They didn't have to agree about everything.

 _Dear Mercedes, if I can't get married and if only married people are supposed to get together, then where does that leave me? What am I supposed to do?_

He'd be alone forever.

No. Crap. Don't get paranoid. Wasn't like this school and this town and the whole _world_ was in a grand conspiracy for Kurt Hummel to _never have a boyfriend_. Hah! No, he was fine. It was Mercedes. He should trust her, give her time, let her work out her own issues. What did it hurt shutting up and letting her have her say when it meant so much to her.

His dad could have died.

He'd spent a week worrying about his dad and on top of that thinking he'd lost his best friend. It was her beliefs that she felt was under attack, her beliefs that took precedence, her beliefs that had to be protected and stood up for and cherished.

Kurt's dad had almost died, and she'd taken him to church and given him a bible.

 _Dear Mercedes. What the hell?_

Applause. Britt and Artie were done. Mr. Schue said a few words of encouragement, bravo, bravo, and then Finn Hudson stood up and turned around to address everybody. A nervous Finn, wiping his hands on the sides of his trousers. Okay?

"Just one thing before we leave," Finn said. "As the co-captain of this club... not that that has anything to do with it. Forget I said that." Sigh. Winging it. With Finn, it was likely to meander. Get it over with, already. And now Finn turned directly to Kurt, speaking directly to him. "I think that it's okay for a guy to sing a duet with another guy. Just wanted to make that clear."

"Thank you so much for your gracious permission."

Uh-huh. Kurt wasn't alone in his grumbling. Confused frowns all around. Puck and Kurt had sung together just fine, hadn't they? No need to kick down open doors. No need to freaking shine a spot light where it wasn't welcome.

"I've been thinking..." Finn began, carefully. Kurt would have none of it.

"How about we focus on someone who _isn't me_ for a change?" Yeah.

"Okay, okay." Soothing. Finn's eyebrows did that sad earnest thing. "Just... sorry for giving you a hard time."

"Kurt was given a hard time?" Brittany asked. Speaking to the air in her calm Brittany way.

"Yes," Rachel said with much more of an edge. "What do you mean, Finn?"

Wait, poor Finn. He was making a public apology, that's what this was about. Too bad Kurt was out of shits to give.

"No, no," Finn said. "I'm saying it's okay. It doesn't have to _mean_ anything." A pleading look at Kurt. "Just because you're, you know..."

"A homo," Kurt said, light.

"Queer," Puck supplied.

"Freaking fag," Kurt agreed. Right on the beat.

"Kurt!" Mr. Schue stepped forward, aghast. "What's going on with you?"

Finn looked distressed. "I wasn't saying any of that!"

"Finn. Just so you know, I'm in a spectacularly bad mood. Don't make me coddle your whims. No, no, it's fine, I got it." Kurt turned in his seat and raised his voice. Mock announcement. Mocking Finn, mocking whoever. "In case anyone is wondering, Puck is not my boyfriend. We shared a _song_ , not a bedroom."

"I could imagine worse things." Puck said. Leering, of course.

"Not helping!" Kurt slapped Puck on the back of his head. Hard.

Yeah, oops, haha. Hitting Puck for the second time today, counting lit class. Left Kurt with a stinging palm and a ball of surprise in his chest, like huh. Violence. And Puck retaliated - caught him in a headlock, pulled him down. _Hey!_ Kurt tried to get free, shoved at Puck's arm, but it was no use. The ignominy. And _meep_! Puck proceeded to... rub his scalp? The gentle second cousin of a noogie.

"Let me go!" Kurt got out, more or less strangled.

Puck relaxed until Kurt was able to wrangle himself free, got one ear scrunched up in the process, _ouch_. He got to his feet. Goddammit. It felt perfectly natural to give Puck a shove, a real one, pushing the larger and much heavier boy halfway off his chair.

"Hey!" And Puck was up, a chair fell over, Mike had a restraining arm around Puck's chest, Finn was hollering, people backing away, a freaking hullabaloo.

"Puck," Mr. Schue said, real calm. "Out." He pointed at the door.

"No," Kurt said, hands at his sides. How unfair could it be? "Don't blame him. It's my fault, I started it."

That he had. He'd been fighting. In class. Wow. Kurt looked down, so embarrassed. He glanced up and found himself surrounded by bewildered faces as his friends were trying to reconcile what they'd just seen with, well _Kurt_. Least likely to start a physical fight.

"Great going, nerd," Santana smiled, in a good mood all of a sudden. Maybe Kurt's humiliation meant she'd forgiven him for whatever she thought he'd done.

"Please excuse me, Mr. Schue," Kurt said. "It's the costume. The costume made me do it." That made no sense. The beginnings of a grin were tugging at his lips.

"Yeah." Puck placed his arm across Kurt's back and pulled him close. Seriously. "We're punk. Crash and burn."

"Uh-huh."

"Kurt." Rachel was shaking her head in a show of disappointment.

"What?"

"You're acting like such a guy."

"Newsflash." Kurt gestured at himself, meaning _I am a guy._

She raised her eyebrows, gave a wide-eyed stare. Yeah. Kurt got it. She was saying that he was acting like a jerk, like one of the hostile, blockheaded guys you might find in the back of the buss, in the back of the classroom, mean-spirited and disruptive, ruining it for everybody else. Basically, he was Puck.

Gah.

And Puck's hand was on his shoulder, all causal like. Touchy feely. It was weird and incomprehensible, and also kind of nice and not threatening at all. None of it had been. Turns out their fight hadn't been a fight at all, but a friendly scuffle guy thing, a normal thing to do. Kurt was such a guy. One of the guys. Puck approved.

Mr. Schue was chuckling and shaking his head, won over by the antics. "Alright. I think we're all tired and ready to go home."

"Yes, please," Kurt said with feeling. Puck huffed out a laugh, gave his shoulder a squeeze before letting go. Weird, weird, weird.

And that was that. Kurt lingered, watching everybody as they said their goodbyes and milled out. Watched Mercedes' back. Sigh. She and Sam were deep in conversation. Finn took a step closer to Kurt, before he was stopped by Rachel's tiny hand on his arm. Good. Kurt could talk to Finn some other day. Mr. Schue as well. From the way their teacher was hovering, he was right on the verge of asking Kurt to stick around for some teacherly advise. No, please. That wasn't on the agenda right now.

The day was over, that was that. He had no business standing idle. Time to go. No dawdling, no excuses. His dad was waiting in the hospital.

Don't be scared.

Kurt wasn't scared. His dad was fine. Well, not _fine_ fine, but he would be. For sure. He'd been really ill, touch and go, can't count on him getting well all at once. Some recovery time was expected. Maybe. Maybe today he would be free of all those wires leading to the heart monitor, that would be almost indescribably great. Let's find out. Let's go to the hospital and face reality.


	19. Hospital visit

**Chapter 19**

"Hi dad," Kurt said, barely a breath.

They'd moved his dad to a different room. Machines stood on-the-ready all around him, but he wasn't hooked up to any of them. He was half sitting in the bed, backrest raised. For a few seconds he seemed distant, still gone, but then he turned his head and his face lit up, alert and mobile, and this, _this_ was his dad. Fully awake finally.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

"Hey, kid. Good to see you."

"You too." He stepped up to his dad. There was another patient - an old man - in the room, Kurt spared him a quick apologetic glance before noticing he was fast asleep in his bed. Good, some privacy. "Dad. You look great." So much better. Kurt still felt nervous. "How are you doing, are they letting you out of bed yet? I mean, you _can_ get out, right? How... how are you?"

His dad smiled, steady and calm. "No permanent damage, just tired. But less so than yesterday. They keep telling me to rest."

"If that's all it is, I don't see why you can't rest at home. I'd cook healthy food, stuff that's good for you. I read about this saffron soup that's-"

"Okay." His dad raised his hand. "Stop right there."

Kurt shut up. Yes, literally one second after hello, and he'd already gone ahead and brought up the subject of food. Well handled. Not.

"Before you get on my case, let's get this thing out of the way," his dad said in a slightly put-upon tone of voice. "Sit down, yeah good, don't need a crick in my neck. First off," his dad met Kurt's eyes. "I need you to know that I get how much I scared you with this stupid stunt I pulled. And I'm sorry, I really am."

"Not your fault, oh my God." Apologizing for having a heart attack, seriously.

"Uh-huh. That's not what you were saying the other day."

"What?"

"No, listen up. I've had a long conversation with a nutritionist - doctor Samson - about healthy food and exercise."

"Yeah?"

"No need to sound so skeptical. Eating healthy isn't all that hard, you just got to commit. And I will. I _will._ From now on half or more than half of my portions will be vegetables - and I'm talking real halves, not just a salad that's mostly air. That is my promise to you."

"Okay."

"And in return..." His dad was stern. Not kidding around here. "You have to promise to back off. My health is not your responsibility. It wasn't in the past and it still isn't. Got that?"

Phf. Kurt knew what his dad was trying to do. He was coming down hard so Kurt wouldn't blame himself for failing to prevent the heart attack. And you know what, Kurt didn't blame himself. Why should he, when his dad was the one who kept sabotaging himself.

"It's mostly about bad luck and genetics," his dad said. "And my habits were never that bad, whatever you might think. Still, it wouldn't hurt to get back in shape. Doctor Samson gave me the addresses to a couple websites with recipes and what not, and she'll be calling on me every few months to test my blood, make sure the values are down, stuff like that."

"Sounds great."

"But?"

"No buts. I love it. I'm glad you're finally listening to reason."

"Uh-huh." A raised eyebrow. "Kurt. I'm calling truth time."

"Noo," Kurt mock-groaned. "Not truth time."

"Too late," his dad chuckled. "Ready?"

"Yep." Kurt steeled himself. Harsh criticism ahead. As per the rules, the blunter, the better.

"Get this through your stubborn head," his dad said smoothly. "Your healthy food recommendations are crap."

"Really."

"Yes, really. Just because some Hollywood actress swears by eating twigs and shrubs - they don't know what they're on about. There's nothing wrong with a potato, I tell you."

Kurt laughed.

"I'm not kidding. This thing you do where you take the word of famous people about how to live? That's not convincing. It makes it sound like you read it in a gossip column and now you're just accepting it like gospel. What makes you think those people are experts, is what I'd like to know."

"Ah." Oh. Ah. A really good point, actually. Gossip column. Is that how he'd became convinced about acupuncture?

"Doctor Samson has a degree in nutrition, something you can hang your hat on. I'm thinking next time I talk to her, you might want to come along. We could learn something together."

"Actually... yes. Let's do that. Good idea." So wow. That happened, Kurt had lost his confidence, just like that. How much crap did he have in his head, anyway? Good idea to start over, learn together, yes.

"Alright." His dad smiled. "So we're on the same page?"

"Mhm." Slowly, Kurt grinned back. "You're really going to do this, aren't you? You mean it."

"Absolutely. I'm going to keep my values down, even if it kills me."

They laughed, and if Kurt was skirting up to the edge of tears, was it any wonder? His dad was going to take care of himself, what more could Kurt ask for? Nothing, really.

A nutritionist. A degree in nutrition. Yes. Go ahead and put that in the pile of jobs that Kurt might just be okay with in the future.

"You're going to be alright," Kurt said.

"Yeah, yeah." Dismissive.

"Let's try that again." Cheerleader prompting.

"Give me a break." His dad swatted at the air, pushing the subject aside. "What happened to your hair, by the way?"

"My-" Kurt touched his hair, self-conscious. He'd stopped at home before coming to the hospital, for a change of clothes and a touch-up of his new... different... hair style. It had turned out pretty non-disastrous, considering. "What do you think?"

"It's a change," his dad said, neutral. So neutral it became suspicious.

Kurt bit his lip. Of course his dad couldn't be too approving, it would be perceived as an insult to his old hair. Which could bare no criticism. _Super gay._ His new hair went better with jeans, with sneakers, things like that. Normalcy. Conformity. His new hair had that problem. Was that what was going on inside his dad's head?

"I can't wait to get out of this bed."

Maybe not. "I thought you were supposed to rest."

"What do you think I've been doing all day every day?" A bite to it. "And every day is another day the garage stays closed."

"You're not going right back to work!"

"Of course not." Soothing. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just venting."

"I know. Sorry."

His dad rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. He really was tired, Kurt could see that. They sat in silence for a while, listening to the deep breaths from the man in the other bed. There was a window with an orange curtain and a nightstand with two vases of flowers. The cards were cleared away. Made sense.

"Tell me something good," his dad said, rolling his head against the pillow. "What's new with you? What did I miss while I was out?"

Good question.

 _Well, dad. Our TV was stolen, and there's an entire bottle of Tequila missing from your liqueur cabinet. Funny story. Oh, and I had somebody give you acupuncture while you were comatose. There were needles in your face. You don't mind, do you?_

 _The house is too empty, please come home._

"Glee club is having a bit of an in house competition, doing duets. The winners get a free dinner at Breadstix, courtesy of Mr. Schue."

"Oh yeah? Think you'll win?"

"Nah," Kurt said. He and Puck had done alright, but nah. "There's conspiracy going on - I'm not involved - to let the new guy win, make him feel welcome."

"Not exactly what I'd call sportsmanlike." His dad didn't sound particularly concerned, but then he looked at Kurt, squinted. "Hang on. There's a new guy in your singing club?"

"Yup. Sam. Seems nice."

"Good looking?"

"Yeah." Kurt smirked, seeing the opportunity to tease. "Very."

"Kurt..."

Kurt huffed, a brief laugh. "Don't worry, dad. Pretty sure he wouldn't be interested."

"That's good. Or not good." A raised finger, retracting what he'd just said.

"Good that I don't unduly have my hopes up," Kurt interpreted.

"Right. Not good that he's not... on your team. I do want you to find somebody someday."

"I know," Kurt said. He slumped down, demonstrative.

"Give it time," his dad said. "There's no hurry."

" _Everyone_ I know is dating." Kurt was close to whining. So justified. Also putting on a bit of a show, keeping it light.

"I'm sure that's an exaggeration." His dad was amused. Light, see?

"Okay, so not _everyone_ ," Kurt said. "But it would be nice to have some kind of options."

"I hear you." A soft smile. "Still, high school is filled with boys and girls who aren't dating. I'm not being dismissive, I'm _not._ I'm just saying you're in good company." His dad had earnest down pat. That was because he was. He was a deeply earnest person, Kurt's dad.

"You had mom," Kurt said. Which, oh no. Why turn it into a one-upmanship of misery, especially one his dad was bound to win?

"Eventually, I did." His dad grinned to himself, a _young_ smile. "Mac was dating somebody else at first. God, I hated that guy, couldn't get what she saw in him. All that stupid _hair_."

Kurt smiled. Seemed he hadn't made a mistake mentioning his mom. How unusual to hear his dad say her name. Mac. Mackenzie. She was always _Your Mom_. He'd had no idea she'd dated somebody before his dad, but he could see it easily, his mom in high school, wearing a pastel dress, freckles all over her face. On the arm of some scrawny guy with big floppy hair while his dad, young and earnest, turned to look as she passed him in the hallway. Knowing that she was the one.

"How did you get together then?"

"I'm not sure exactly how that happened. There was a party. We danced. A lot. There might have been some kissing involved."

"I see." This was starting to sound... less than ideal.

"And then nothing, she wouldn't even talk to me. Except next week she and her boyfriend had broken up." His dad's face was carefree, lit up by memories. "And she started giving me those _stares_ , you know. Like she was looking right into my soul. Tell you the truth, it scared the shit out of me."

Kurt laughed like they weren't even in a hospital.

"One day she just walked up to me. Put her hands like this..." His dad put his fists to his sides, elbows out. Paused, relishing at being a storyteller. Kurt loved his dad. "And she said..." Deep breath, proud huff. "'Burt Hummel, you'd better be worth it.'"

Kurt made a high pitched noise of delight. Which for the record he didn't do on purpose, and sometimes he hated his voice getting like that, and sometimes he did do it on purpose, shut up.

"Yeah, yeah," his dad said. "I had no idea how lucky I was. I was mostly just trying to come up with reasons to get out of it."

"You were?" Kurt frowned.

"Yeah. I guess I was worried about everything she wanted from me. Commitments, obligations, all that. And... I guess I realized that I didn't know anything about her. All I knew was that she was pretty and that I liked to watch her laugh. I wasn't ready, of course I wasn't. I was just a kid, and a stupid one at that."

"You were never stupid."

"Let's just say you're much more mature than I was at your age."

"I'll buy that."

"Cheeky. Did I ever tell you that you're just like her?"

"Frequently."

"Right. You _are,_ you know. Smart. Brave."

"Talented."

"Nah."

"Dad!"

"Okay, sorry. You're fine." His dad closed his eyes, tired, but still with a smile on his face. "I was lucky your mom wouldn't give up on me," he said. "We had some good times."

Good times? Kurt made a disgruntled sound in his throat.

"What?" His dad opened an eye. He reached out, gently cuffing Kurt on the side of his head. "Why are you making that face?"

"I'm not. I'm just... ah. Forget it."

"Uh-huh." His dad peered at him, bright and steady. "Not romantic enough for you?"

Yes. Not romantic enough. Not... soulmate-y enough. Whatever that was supposed to mean. Ah, oh. Or... actually, never mind. Love was real, why should he even doubt it? Nuts.

And now his dad had Carole. It all worked out in the end.

His dad had gone still, looking down at his hands. There was something acutely grim and sad about him. Kurt swallowed guilt. He'd gone about it wrong, acting like nothing was out of the ordinary. Almost death and hospital smells. He should tell his dad... something important.

 _Hey dad. I know you almost died. A near brush with death could be a good thing, if you let it. It could make you more appreciative of life. You've got a second chance, you got to cherish every moment. Life is short, do what makes you happy._

Oh no, that wasn't cliché at all.

 _Hey dad. I never prayed for you. Do you mind? Do you?_

"Kurt," his dad said.

Kurt glanced up, and found himself being stared at. He raised his eyebrows. "What? What is it?"

"I don't know." His dad was studying Kurt's face as if there was a message written on his nose. Disconcerting, was what it was.

"Can I get you anything? Water? I guess grapes and chocolate are the traditional-"

"How are things for you, Kurt?" he asked. "I mean, generally. I know your grades are fine, but otherwise? You're keeping busy? Enjoying life?"

Enjoying life? "Yeah." Kurt leaned back in his chair, looked away. "Not so much last week, but yeah. I'm alright."

"No one's giving you a hard time?"

"N-no." Frick.

"Kurt. If there was something, you'd tell me, right?"

"Not likely," Kurt scoffed. It was an admission, but come on. Bit too late to start digging. It couldn't have been two years ago, back when Kurt had been all alone and dressed to disappear. If those baggy jeans hadn't been a cry for help, nothing was.

"Kurt..."

"I can take care of myself, you know that, dad."

"So there _is_ something?" Bloodhound stubborn.

"Nothing that's going to surprise you," Kurt shrugged. "They insult me, I insult them, it's the circle of life."

"I don't like it. But I need you to tell me if-" His dad took a deep breath. "Is someone hurting you? Physically."

Physically? Physically? Ack. It struck Kurt all wrong, that word, physical. Like... like Karofsky grabbing him, hoisting him behind the dumpster, holding him petrified, tighter than anyone held him before. Tight enough he could still feel it. Hugging him like... just like passion. Breath in his ear. Petrified. You could tell it was significant for _him_ , for Karofsky. Felt it, guessed it. That he wanted. With Kurt. The body that was his, Kurt's. That which belonged to him.

His dad reached out and grabbed his wrist. Kurt jumped, but it was fine. His dad's grip, trusting him.

"Hey." His dad said. Low and forceful. "You're a private kind of guy, I get that. And as much as I'd like to I can't protect you from each and every slur that comes your way. But physical stuff, you can't keep that hidden from me. If someone crosses that line, I need you to tell me."

"What if I'm not sure?" His voice was flimsy.

His dad frowned. "You're not sure if someone's crossed the line?"

"Mm."

"Kurt?" The squeeze around his wrist was a bit too hard.

"Could I just..." He leaned back in the chair, pulled his hand free. Some space between him and his dad, some breathing space. Happy thoughts, la di dah. Clear skies. Daisies, daisies, Harlequin faces. Sad clown makeup was pretty great. Alright, fine. His dad wanted to help, Kurt could do that for him. Steady as she goes. "There's this guy." Okay, okay. "I guess he's got a real problem with me." Kurt fell silent. "It happened a long time ago."

"Yes?"

"Kind of a long story. Remember Gaga week?"

"You know I don't."

"How about a white wig, high heels, and those pointy shoulder-"

"Yes, yes."

"You drove me to school that day."

"I remember."

"You were silent the whole drive. And when we were there, right before I opened the car door, you said..." Kurt snorted, waylaid by hilarity. He cleared his throat just like his dad had done, "Ah-hum. Kurt. Son. I'm not a fashionista like you, but don't you think what you're wearing right now is a little bit... much?"

"And that's funny now?" His dad was smiling and frowning, both. At the same time. So funny.

"You thought I was for real," Kurt laughed. "You didn't know it was a costume. You actually thought..." Pause for breath.

"Okay," his dad said, sounding cranky. "I'm thinking this is one of those distinctions that I can't really see."

"I guess not," Kurt said. He was curbing a grin. No one liked getting laughed at.

"Tell me what happened."

"It wasn't that important."

"Don't pull that shit. I want to know."

"Fine." It was easy not to laugh anymore, but Kurt still felt light. He was so much in the right it was easy, he felt light. _Enjoy life_ , that's how you dealt with near deaths and heart attacks. "He threatened to beat me up."

"I need a name."

"He didn't do it. He didn't even touch me." Wrong. But sort of right.

"Name."

"It's David, alright. David... Karofsky." Physical? What the hell? Kurt swallowed. "But dad, that doesn't _matter_. He's just some stupid undereducated kid, he picks on a lot of people, it's not just me. I don't know why he is the way he is, but it's not your job to fix him." _It's mine._

His dad gazed at Kurt, a weighty look. "All I want," he said. "All I ever want, is for you to be safe and happy."

Kurt gasped, a gulp of air. "Same. I mean, me too. For you."

"Jesus Christ, come here, kid."

Right. Kurt got up. He leaned over to rest his head on his dad's shoulder, his dad's arms around his back. He closed his eyes. Like the kid he'd been, resting with his eyes closed in his father's arms.

People might think hugging was something Burt Hummel didn't do, but that's where they'd be wrong. He might not hug often, but when stuff got hard, when Kurt was visibly upset, his dad would hug. Kurt had learned to count on it. His dad's embrace was as strong as ever, the first real hug since he'd woken up.

* * *

Burt stroked his son's back. He'd been terrified, actually terrified when Kurt had brought up that crazy gaga getup. Some goon trying to scare him was bad, yes, but it wasn't the worst. Although the fact that he'd kept completely silent about the incident until just now did say something about how badly it had affected him.

To pry or not to pry, that was and always had been the question. Burt had usually opted for not. The world could be harsh, and he'd raised his kid on hugs and freedom and Friday dinners. Trusting Kurt. Though Burt often got the feeling that there was something major he could be doing to improve things.

"Listen." He ruffled Kurt's hair, sighing. "You're not fooling me. I know there's more to this situation than you're telling me."

"Nn," Kurt said.

Translation, _I heard you, but that's all you're getting for now_.

Seventeen. Seven _teen._ His small child had changed, morphed right beneath his hands, into broad shoulders and adolescent concerns. He'd used to pick Kurt up and swing him around, the surefire way to swing the sadness right out of his head.

Burt closed his eyes. Clever and private and prideful - not prying had been the easy way out. Blindly trusting in his kid's ability to stay afloat. All Burt could do was to hug him tighter and promise himself to do better from now on.


End file.
